Into Darkness
by somanyhands
Summary: Once upon a time, the Holmes boys found themselves in a situation. This is the story of how the lives of Jim Moriarty and two Holmes men became entangled and how the past came back to haunt them. Rated mature for future chapters (adult content, implied dub-con and child abuse). Will be very AU as far as the past goes.
1. Chapter 1

"I will only speak to Mycroft Holmes."

Jim sat on the hard chair in the middle of the room, hands bound behind his back.  
He was stubborn; stern; resolute. He would say nothing beyond those seven words.  
There was nothing that anyone could do that would convince him to share any of his methods; his contacts; his secrets.

Many had tried.  
Secret service; military men; hard men, well-trained with many years experience, but nobody had succeeded in getting the 'consulting criminal' to tell them anything.

"I will only speak to Mycroft Holmes."

There were threats, beatings and deprivation.  
There were bloody noses, black eyes and broken ribs.  
There was even a punctured lung and a concussion before Mycroft had pulled the men out.

Still nothing.

"I will only speak to Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft Holmes stared through the one-way glass and sighed. He was running out of options. He chewed apprehensively on his bottom lip. There had only ever been one other person who made him feel this way: this heightened level of anxiety and disquiet; a feeling of helplessness.

He had hoped it wouldn't come to this: to what he would have to do next.

"Sir?" Anthea stepped into the room, deliberately keeping her gaze away from the window. "Sir, your brother is here."

"Thank you, Anthea."

Mycroft took a long breath and forced himself back to his usual composure, giving his umbrella an experimental flick with his wrist.

"Please inform my brother that I shall be with him in five minutes."


	2. Chapter 2

"Has he said anything?"

Sherlock looked up from his seat at Mycroft's desk as his brother entered his office and glared the question at his brother. Mycroft just rolled his eyes and rounded the desk, pulling out the chair and pushing the younger man out of his seat.

"Must you present yourself as a nuisance at _every_ opportunity, Sherlock?" he asked, needlessly brushing down the seat with his handkerchief before sitting in it himself.

Sherlock shucked off Mycroft's touch, huffed and flung himself down on the expensive leather sofa instead.

"Well, if you will make me wait while you pander to your cronies." he moaned, mindlessly etching at the leather arm with a fingernail, "I don't have all day to hang around and wait for you, Mycroft." He almost spat his brother's name as a sign of disrespect and complete nonchalance.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but ignored the comment. He was used to his brother's jibes, and he was in no way in the mood to play "Let's banter with Sherlock" right now.

"He isn't talking."

Mycroft lifted the lid of his laptop and frowned as he began typing a memo. He needed to get clearance for the next phase of the operation, and he wasn't entirely sure whether permission would be granted. It was... unorthodox.

Sherlock, unhappy at being effectively ignored, leaned forwards from the sofa towards his brother's position.

"Let me speak to him."

For a long moment, the silence in the room was deafening. The rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock could have been gunfire, and the muted noises from the rest of the building could have been rush hour traffic. The silence however, was louder than all of that. You could hear it; touch it; feel it.

Mycroft slowly raised his eyes from the keyboard of his laptop and stared at, or perhaps through, his brother. The intense scrutiny made Sherlock very uneasy.

"Utterly out of the question." Mycroft barked loudly, banging his fist on the desk and setting a handful of pens and pencils toppling over in their pot. "This is NOT a game, Sherlock. This is a matter of national security. Do you even comprehend that?"

Sherlock barely stifled the jump that his brother's unexpected outburst elicited. It wasn't often that Sherlock pushed Mycroft's buttons to the extent that the elder lost control of his temper, and the response had taken Sherlock somewhat by surprise.

He calmly and deliberately smoothed his fingers over the jagged nail etchings he had made on the sofa's arm and stood.

Without saying a word, he rounded Mycroft's desk and stopped alongside the oversized wing back chair, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder.

Mycroft leaned in to his brother's touch and closed his eyes. The soft moan that escaped his mouth betrayed the feelings that he was trying desperately to hide. Sherlock's touch was infrequent nowadays: something to be savoured; cherished even. It always rendered Mycroft speechless save for one word he could bring himself to mutter.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled and gave the shoulder beneath his fingers a soft caress.

"Brother," he began, letting his thumb brush across the soft dip of his brother's collarbone, "We both know what he is waiting for. We know what he wants. You can't possibly be thinking about doing this yourself?"

The question was more of an exclamation of disbelief than an actual question, but Mycroft knew that this needed discussing, and that Sherlock was the only person with whom he could discuss this properly.

Mycroft straightened the pens on his desk, righting the pot and pointlessly fiddling with the replaced contents before raising his hand and placing it over Sherlock's on his shoulder.

"I do not see that we have any other option, Sherlock." he said quietly, letting his perfectly-manicured fingers entwine with his brother's slightly rougher digits.

"However, I will not allow you to once again sacrifice yourself for me."


	3. Chapter 3

The brothers were jolted from their moment by Mycroft's phone. Sherlock snatched his hand away, as if burned, and walked around to the far side of the desk in the office.

Mycroft leaned across to answer the call, giving his brother a nod as he did so.

"Mycroft Holmes." he acknowledged into the handset before listening intently for several minutes, his frown deepening as the seconds passed.

"You're absolutely sure?"

Sherlock gave a long, impatient sigh and pulled around the second wing back to seat himself. He began picking at a small splinter of wood on the desk edge while his brother continued the call.

"And you're only just telling me this now?" Mycroft's voice had raised, and Sherlock's eyebrow raised along with it.

It was unusual for Mycroft to lose his cool with anybody, even more so at work. He was well-known for being "The Ice-man": cool, calm and unaffected.

This business with Moriarty was clearly affecting him more than Sherlock had realised, and the thought make the younger man's stomach turn somersaults.

Mycroft lowered the receiver back in to its cradle and dropped his head onto his hands.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock inquisitive baritone rumbled, causing his brother to raise his head only slightly in response. Sherlock didn't repeat himself, merely tipping his head a little as if to encourage his brother's response.

"Counter Terrorism have asked to speak to Jim Moriarty." he said, lowering his hands and flattening them on the desk to steady himself. "Usually, I might be able to fend them off for a little longer, but apparently, they put in the request 6 days ago when Moriarty was first apprehended. I was not informed and therefore the request has already been approved. They are due tomorrow morning."

He leaned himself back in his chair with a loud sigh and looked at his brother who was clearly still working through the ramifications of the situation.

"Are you worried that they won't be able to get Jim to talk? Or that they will?" Sherlock rested his elbows on the opposite side of the desk and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, trying to deduce his brother's feelings about the turn of events. Was he worried that counter terrorism would also fail to get anything out of their captive, or was his greater concern that they would succeed and what Jim Moriarty might reveal?

Mycroft pushed himself up from his chair and came around the table to where Sherlock sat. Sherlock immediately stood, levelling himself up to his brother's height. Mycroft's anxiety was almost tangible. His breathing was accelerated, and he was sporadically chewing on his bottom lip.

"I think we both know what the consequences could be if Jim Moriarty decides to talk, Sherlock." he said, placing a hand on his brother's arm and absently sliding his thumb around the younger man's jacket cuff.

"I have lived in constant fear that our past could come back to haunt us someday, and the only way I can think to prevent that is to speak to Jim Moriarty myself as a matter of urgency."

Sherlock nodded. Jim Moriarty knew too much. He knew things that nobody could know. Nobody ever.

It had been long years since the Holmes men had had any direct involvement with the Moriartys, but it had not been long enough. It could _never_ be long enough. The Moriartys were like a virus. They wormed their way into homes and families and infected everything they touched, making it bleed and burn.

After James Moriarty's death 25 years ago, Sherlock had never expected to encounter another in the Moriarty line. He had certainly hoped not to.

However, when a well-dressed young man had become acquainted with his brother some five years later, nobody expected him to be the only son of James Moriarty, and during the ten years that the man had managed to keep that fact hidden, the Holmes brothers had found themselves more deeply involved than they ever could have imagined.


	4. Chapter 4

**30 years earlier.**

Mycroft cringed as the plate crashed against the wall, sweeping up his cowering little brother into his arms and ushering him out of the dining room towards their bedroom.

Sherlock's breath hitched as he tried to stifle his sobs. "Big boys don't cry." Daddy had drilled into them, and Sherlock was trying very hard to be a big boy.

Mycroft pulled him into the wardrobe, wedging the door closed with the little piece of wood he kept in there.

"Shhhhhhhh." he whispered into the five-year-old's ear, "It's OK now."

Mycroft began his count to 300. Two hundred was usually long enough for Father to have calmed down or at least been distracted from his rage, but tonight, Mycroft didn't think 200 would be enough. He softly stroked his hand through Sherlock's dark curls in a well-practised comforting manoeuvre. As Mycroft reached the final 50, the young boy's sobs began to quieten, and his breathing sounded sleepy. He finished his count and silently opened the cupboard door. The bedroom was quiet and dark.

He tiptoed across the carpet to flick on a bedside lamp and led the drowsy youngster to their bed. As Mycroft carefully changed his brother into his pyjamas, he gave Sherlock a once over, checking for injuries. A couple of nasty bruises were beginning to form on his legs but nothing too serious. He lay Sherlock down in the bed, stroking his hair fondly as the little boy's heavy eyelids fell closed.

With a long sigh, Mycroft raised himself from the bed and wandered into their adjoining bathroom to clean up and check his own injuries. He was older than Sherlock, and in his Father's eyes, more able to take the blows. He straightened himself up in the mirror and winced as he brought a damp washcloth up to the cut on his cheek.

_At least nothing seems broken_, he thought.

Mycroft lay in the bed, mindful of his little brother's bruises, wondering what had triggered Siger Holmes's mood this time. He had arrived home late from work very obviously irate and needing to vent. The two Holmes boys had tried their best to avoid their father, but it hadn't been possible as they all shared the dinner table.

Mycroft wondered whether James Moriarty had been the problem again. The twelve-year-old knew only a little about the feud between the two families. Mummy had sat him down one morning after a particularly bad beating, and tried to explain how James Moriarty and Siger Holmes were constantly in opposition with each other. When Siger came down on the winning side, the Holmes family shared peaceful family dinners and the occasional vacation, but when Moriarty won, as he often did, the Holmes family paid the price. For 12-year-old Mycroft, that was all the explanation that was needed.

"It's just the way things are." Mummy would say. "You know how your father is."

Mycroft nodded sadly. He knew there would be no defence against their father coming from Mummy. She had her own battles to fight, but somebody needed to protect his little brother, and that somebody was Mycroft.

As years went on, the Holmes brothers lived day-to-day moulding their behaviour around Siger's mood. Mycroft always tended to his little brother's injuries, the most serious being a broken arm when Mycroft didn't manage to usher Sherlock away quite quickly enough and Father grabbed the 7-year-old from his older brother's grasp.

Nanny Broughton had temporarily bound the arm for him and taken the boys to the hospital the following morning.

"Boys will be boys." she said to the nurse on duty. The young nurse nodded. Broken arms weren't unusual for young boys, of course, and she had no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. Siger was usually very careful to avoid breaking bones for that very reason, and both boys were experienced in covering up cuts and bruises.

Fifteen-year-old Mycroft would later spent almost a week with three of his fingers strapped together in a home-made splint after a particularly nasty evening. He had been shielding his 8-year-old brother from a small side table that Father had flung across the drawing room towards the smaller boy who was crying. Mycroft had made an attempt to bat away the piece of furniture as it approached, resulting in a gut-wrenching crack and two broken fingers. Nanny had refused to take him to the hospital, binding the digits in a tight splint instead.

The boys counted themselves lucky that such injuries were rare, and Mycroft continued to look out for his little brother.

"We're going on holiday to France!" Sherlock bounded out of the kitchen one morning, almost knocking Mycroft over in his excitement. Mummy emerged behind the 10-year-old, her face in a rare smile.

"Mummy?" Mycroft enquired. They had never been to France. They'd rarely holidayed anywhere lately, Father's work keeping them too busy for such things.

"I'm going to pack some things." Sherlock shouted, heading upstairs, and Mummy Holmes took the 17-year-old's arm and led him into the drawing room.

The two sat on the fireside chairs, and Mycroft looked at his mother's face. She looked calm and content.

"James Moriarty died last night." She finally said with a relieved-sounding sigh and a soft smile. "Do you understand what this means, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's face settled in a contemplative frown as let the information sink in. "I think so."

"Things will be better now." Mummy added, leaning over and resting a hand on her son's lap. "You'll see."


	5. Chapter 5

**24 years earlier**

"You remember what I told you, Sherlock?" Mycroft threaded his long fingers through his brother's own. "Just try to stay out of his way, and don't do anything to antagonise him."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm eleven years old now, Mycroft." he grumbled, "I'm sure I can look after myself."

Mycroft wanted to believe that. He really and truly did, but he'd spent the past 6 years or more looking out for his little brother and old habits died hard. Added to the fact that he knew that Sherlock was of a very different temperament to himself. He was capable of pushing many buttons without so much as a second thought, and this fact scared Mycroft. Without being there to protect his little brother, he shuddered to think what might happen.

University called however, and there was nothing Mycroft Holmes could do to change that.

"I shall be home again in three months, Sherlock." he told the young boy, pulling him into a tight embrace and fighting back the tears that pricked at his eyes. "Three months. Do you think you can be good for that long?"

Sherlock shrugged off his brother's well-meaning touch and sidled away from him on the bed.

"I'm not a baby, Mycroft." he said, his voice bitter and resentful, betraying his true feelings about the desertion, "Go stay with your new friends. I don't need you."

With that, Sherlock stood and ran out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind him with a deliberate slam.

Mycroft let out a long sigh and flopped back onto the bed, hugging his arms close to his body as if still holding his absent brother close.

"Oh, Sherlock," he muttered, voice cracking with emotion, "I really hope that is true."

* * *

"Mycroft!" Sherlock ran down the stairs and into his brother's arms. It had been a long three months, and Sherlock had tried his best, he really had. He had studied hard and kept his head down, but Father's work had become difficult and there had been that one moment when...

"Sherlock!" Mycroft slid his hands around the smaller boy and pulled him close. The resulting wince from his little brother wasn't lost on him however.

"Sherlock?" The rest of the question hung between them, unspoken but clear as day. When it became apparent that Father wasn't yet home, Mycroft ushered his younger brother up the stairs as he took his small case to their room.

Sherlock bounced himself down onto his brother's bed with a wordless shrug, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow and glared at the smaller boy.

"Show me." he demanded, unzipping his carry case and meticulously unfolding the contents and putting them away.

Sherlock swallowed hard, shaking his head. "I can handle it." he stubbornly replied, laying himself down and curling his gangly limbs into a foetal position, facing away from his brother's prying eyes.

Mycroft let out a long, deliberately loud huff of breath and circled the bed, once again putting himself in front of Sherlock.

"Show. Me." he repeated with more emphasis and less patience.

Sherlock blinked his long dark lashes, ignoring the single tear that the move let slip from his eyes. Slowly and carefully, he lifted his t shirt, revealing a wide spread of dark purple bruises and a long, dark red gash stretching from collarbone to naval.

Mycroft failed to stifle the gasp that the sight elicited, and he dropped himself down onto the bed alongside his brother, taking Sherlock's hand and pulling it to his own cheek: a comforting move for them both.

"Oh my god, Sherlock." the elder boy stuttered, closing his eyes at the feel of his brother's soft skin against his face, "I never imagined..."

"It was my fault." Sherlock interrupted, his voice flat and emotionless, "I didn't do well enough in classes and Father..."

Mycroft held up his free hand to the younger boy and shook his head, indicating that Sherlock should stop speaking. He pulled his brother carefully towards his own body, holding him close.

"I am so sorry, Sherlock." he sobbed, his body shaking from the effort of trying not to lose complete control of his emotions. "I am so sorry."

* * *

**3 years later**

As Mycroft's car pulled up outside the Holmes family home, Sherlock watched from their top bedroom window. He felt mixed emotions at his brother's arrival. On the one hand, it was the return of his protector, the person who made him feel safe and secure despite the anger and the beatings. On the other hand, Mycroft's presence made him feel small and vulnerable, something to be protected like a baby bird. He both longed for and hated that feeling in equal measure.

He deliberately didn't run down to greet Mycroft, choosing instead to stay in their bedroom and curl up on his own bed, knees to his chest and back to the door.

He heard his brother enter the house and he closed his ears when he heard him ask Mummy where his little brother was.

"He spends all his time in that damned bedroom, Mycroft." Mummy replied, placing an emotionless kiss on Mycroft's cheek and nodding her head upwards. "I really don't know why he does it. It's almost as if he cannot bear to be around his own family."

Mummy waved Mycroft towards the stairs and turned to walk into the drawing room.

"Dinner will be at 8pm." She shouted after him as Mycroft began to head upstairs, "Make sure your brother isn't late again. You know how it upsets your father."

Mycroft sighed heavily and proceeded up the curved staircase. It was clear that all wasn't well between his little brother and their parents, and Mycroft, despite his seven more years of experience, had no idea how to build bridges between the two sides. Mummy and Father were stuck in their ways, and Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. He was 14 years of angst and torment wrapped up in a teenager. Mycroft had not the first clue how to handle that.

He pulled his case along the upstairs hall and pushed open their shared bedroom door. As the opening from the hall cast a dim light across the curve of Sherlock's back, Mycroft could see the younger boy's shoulders shake. He crossed to turn on a bedside lamp and lowered himself onto Sherlock's bed, placing a tentative hand on his brother's arm.

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly, daring to stroke the frail, trembling arm beneath his fingers.

Sherlock turned his head slightly to meet his brother's enquiring look, and Mycroft saw hurt, pain and need. His little brother needed him so badly.

He could only be thankful that this time he did not need to leave again in the near future.

"Sherlock," he continued, the younger boy raising his body slowly into a sitting position, "I am sorry. I promise I will not leave you again."

Sherlock turned his head to meet his brother's gaze and raised an eyebrow questioning, in hope.

"You won't?" he asked, leaning in to Mycroft's soft curves and resting his head on the elder's shoulder.

"I promise." Mycroft repeated, tipping his head to look his brother in the eyes, suddenly seeing the start of a smile on his pale face. A smile that showed relief and something else. Something more. Mycroft unconsciously chewed on his bottom lip and Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Mycroft." he said, raising his hand to his brother's cheek and cupping it gently, his eyes closed as if trying to maintain some degree of control over his emotions.

The teenager leaned in towards his brother, wrapping his long, slender fingers through auburn hair and pulling him closer.

"Mycroft." he whispered quietly, lips ghosting softly against the elder's. "Please stay with me."


	6. Chapter 6

**1 years earlier**

Sherlock woke first, his eyes squinting with the brightness of the early morning sun through the drapes that didn't quite close fully.

"My?" he whispered, thankful that it was still early enough that nobody else in the house would yet be awake except, perhaps, for their housekeeping who would be down in the kitchen. "My, you awake?"

Mycroft rolled over with a sigh to find his brother staring at him, big blue eyes boring into his own but showing a worry and tenseness that belied Sherlock's anxiety about waking in his brother's bed. Mycroft responded with a sleepy smile and wrapped an arm across Sherlock's thin waist.

"Good morning, brother." he replied, pulling the teenager closer and nestling into his dark curls. "Did you sleep well?"

Sherlock moaned into the embrace and began to relax a little, letting tight, anxious muscles loosen and adapt to his brother's soft curves.

"I was... worried." he finally answered, allowing his own arm to curl around his brother's back and brush soft strokes along his spine. "I wasn't sure if you might regret..." he hesitated, fumbling a little for the correct word or phrase, "...regret this." he finished weakly, burying his face in the softness if the pillow, hiding from his brother's response.

Mycroft pulled his arm away and propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at his little brother. Despite being almost the same height, Sherlock's pale, gangly frame made him look small and vulnerable. Mycroft could not help feeling protective, possessive even. He reached his other hand around and turned Sherlock to face him again.

"Sherlock," he began with his face serious and voice convinced of its meaning, "you are by far the most important person in my life. I care for you... No," he corrected, swallowing hard and briefly closing his eyes before continuing, " no, I _love_ you deeply, more than anything in this world, and I will always be here for you. I have no regrets, my dear brother. None. Ever. I promise you this."

As he finished, Mycroft dropped himself back onto his own pillow and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling while he waited for his brother to process the information.

After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, Sherlock spoke.

"I love you too, Mycroft."

* * *

**6 months later**

"Where's that pathetic brother of yours?" Father barked at Mycroft as the young man entered the dining room carrying the water jug for the dinner table. Siger Holmes did not tolerate tardiness, and being late to the dinner table was, in his eyes, a particularly heinous crime.

"Would you like me to check on him, Father?" Mycroft asked, mustering up as much courage as he was able to answer the man in a confident tone. Something else that Siger Holmes didn't tolerate was weakness, and Mycroft did his best to sound firm and in control.

Siger stood from the dinner table, letting his arm chair drag noisily across the polished wood floor. Mycroft notice Mummy stifle a wince as Siger slammed both hands down on the expensive lace-edged tablecloth.

" I shall go myself." he hollered, turning away from his seated family and heading towards the hall. Mycroft looked to his mother, his face silently imploring her to allow him to go instead. She wordlessly shook her head, eyes cast down.

"No, Mycroft." she whispered, and the footsteps on the stairs became louder, more deliberate, in an attempt to pre-warn the teenager of his father's approach and the impending punishment that came with it.

Mycroft closed his eyes and fought back the tears that stung behind his lids. There was nothing he could do now. He knew this. The only thing Mycroft could do was wait for it to be over and tend to Sherlock afterwards. His breath hitched involuntarily, and Mummy shot him a glare across the dinner table. Mycroft answered it with a terse nod, and they both waited for Siger's return to their evening meal.

* * *

**4 months later **

"You do understand, don't you, Sherlock?" Mycroft's face was worried as he sat next to his brother in their bedroom. "I need my own life too."

Sherlock's tangled his long fingers together, one hand in the other, and chewed on his bottom lip.

"You _promised_, Mycroft!" he replied angrily, not looking up, "You _promised_."

"I am not leaving you." Mycroft reassured, placing a hand over his brother's fidgeting pair. "It's just a date: an evening out with a friend."

Sherlock raised his head, his pained eyes meeting Mycroft's. "But you will leave me." he said, his voice small, "Someday, you will leave."

Mycroft let out a long sigh and brought his other hand up to cup his brother's chin. As he leaned in close and pressed their lips together, Sherlock let out a soft moan and pressed back in a long, needy kiss.

"I'll always be here if you need me, Sherlock." he began, pulling back from their contact, both brothers breathing heavily. "This man, Jerry, he is a good person. We have much in common, and I feel comfortable with him." Mycroft bent his head towards Sherlock, resting their foreheads together and feeling the younger boy nod.

"Have a good evening, brother." he muttered, tipping his head up briefly and placing a soft sighing kiss on Mycroft's lips.

"I'll be back." Mycroft responded confidently.


	7. Chapter 7

**19 years ago**

"Why, Mycroft?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother who just tipped his head sideway and sighed back at him.

"Sherlock." he warned, laying his hand on the younger's arm, "Jerry means a lot to me, you know that."

Sherlock violently pulled his arm from his brother's touch and began pacing across the bedroom. He stopped alongside the dressing table and slid open Mycroft's top drawer. As he began pulling out his brother's belongings, throwing them onto the bed behind him, his shoulders shook with the tears he was trying very hard to hold back.

"You'll be needing all these." he choked out, tossing underwear and other items in Mycroft's direction, setting to emptying the elder's allocation of drawers. As he pulled out the last of nightwear, he froze, his hand stilling above something he had never seen before.

The sudden stop diverted Mycroft's attention from collecting his items and folding them to pack. He quickly noted which drawer his brother was rifling through and instantly knew what he had found. Before he had a chance to say anything however, Sherlock had whirled himself round and into his brother's face.

"Is this _him_?" he spat, thrusting the photograph at Mycroft. His brother swallowed and calmly took it, brushing his fingers over the image to soften the creases that had gathered there. He smiled unthinking before flattening his face again and looking up at his brother.

"That's Jerry." he acknowledged quietly as he turned to put the photo into the top pocket of his case. "He's good to me, Sherlock." he continued, forcing Sherlock to step back as Mycroft gathered up the remainder of his scattered belongings and folded them into his case.

Sherlock didn't move. He just stood frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed on the floor. Mycroft mustered up all the courage he could to ignore his younger sibling, as he moved to the wardrobe and began folding trousers and other items.

After minutes that felt like hours, Sherlock raised his head and sat on the bed next to Mycroft's suitcase.

"Don't you love me any more?" he asked, his voice low and hurting. The 16-year-old was losing his brother; his lover; his protector, and he was broken.

Mycroft let the trousers he was holding drop into the case unfolded and moved to sit alongside his brother. He took the younger boy's hand and squeezed it in his own.

"I will always love you, Sherlock, but I cannot stay here in this house. I am only moving ten miles away, and I will be here any time you need me, but I have to move on with my life. Make something of it. If Father found out about my..." he paused, his stomach turning at the thought, "...if he found out about my relationship with Jerry while I am still here, I dread to think what could happen. I have to move out. You understand that, right?"

Sherlock just sat and thought about that for a moment. He knew that what Mycroft was saying made sense, but he could not help the churning sickness that the thought gave him in his stomach. He couldn't imagine Mycroft not being there, and he was scared. Scared of their father, scared of what he himself might do.

"I will come any time you need me, Sherlock."

* * *

"I hope you're going to like my brother." Mycroft straightened up the sofa cushions for the umpteenth time that afternoon. "He has been through a lot, but he is a good boy."

Jerry placed a hand on Mycroft's arm, stilling it before pulling his lover close to him. "I'm sure I'll like him just fine, Mycroft." the Irishman replied, placing a kiss on his forehead. "If he is anything like you, I'm certain we'll get along."

Mycroft answered with a nervous smile and nodded.

The moment was disturbed by a light knock at the door.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft greeted his brother with a wide smile and wider arms, pulling his little brother close and closing his eyes to the emotions that threatened to overcome him. It had been over a month since he had seen his brother, and he had missed him terribly.

As Mycroft took Sherlock's coat and ushered him into their small living room, Jerry stood and approached. "You must be Sherlock." he said, extending his hand to the dark-haired man, "I'm Jerry. Mycroft has spoken much about you."

Sherlock nodded and laughed, raising an eyebrow at his brother. "I bet he has." the younger chuckled.

The visit continued with much laughter and drinking, and during evening, Sherlock looked at the pair with a genuine fondness. Jerry and Mycroft were clearly very much in love, and this knowledge made Sherlock very happy. He chastised himself for the past years of jealousy and hatred that he had harboured and resolved to support his brother in any way he could.

As Sherlock made to leave at the end of the night, Jerry said his goodbyes and left the boys to their privacy at the door. Mycroft held his brother's hand and looked into Sherlock's piercing eyes.

"It has been wonderful to see you, Sherlock." he said, resting their foreheads together: a long-practised position of comfort for the pair.

"Jerry is a very lucky guy." Sherlock whispered as he leaned in to his brother's lips and smiled. "Be happy, brother."

* * *

**2 years later**

"You seen that faggot brother of yours lately, Sherlock?" Father's voice bellowed across the dining table as he drank down another glass of red wine. Sherlock hesitated a moment, trying to deduce which reply would give him the least trouble.

"I haven't, Father." he lied, hoping that Siger's increasingly inebriated deduction skills were dulled. Mummy's eyes darted from her husband to her son, watching and waiting to see whether the former believed that. Siger lowered his drained glass to the table and wordlessly pushed out his chair.

"Dessert, Siger?" Mummy asked him, using considerable effort to remain unaffected by the emerging scene. Sherlock kept his eyes down and continued to eat, deciding that showing fear might be a giveaway to his deception. He could feel his father's eyes boring into him, and he felt his own heartbeat begin to race in both fear and anticipation. There was a long silence after Siger stood and Mummy spoke, during which the only sound Sherlock could hear was his own blood rushing through his veins. It was a deafening silence. The sound of indecision. Which way would this go?

"Liar!" Siger yelled, picking up his empty wine glass and sending it smashing against the flock paper of the dining room wall, and in a split second, he rounded the table and pulled at Sherlock's chair.

The chair howled loudly against the wooden floor and its occupant fell gracelessly from it. Siger bent down and curled long, rough fingers acround the boy's thin, pale arm, yanking him upwards and leading him stumbling across the room towards the hall.

As the pair ascended the stairs and the familiar sounds of Siger beating his younger son moved into Sherlock's bedroom, Mummy began to clear away the dinner dishes.


	8. Chapter 8

**16 years earlier**

Mycroft woke slowly, his eyes gradually becoming accustomed to the dim morning light of the bedroom. He turned his head to watch his lover sleeping alongside him.

A contented smile spread across his face. He was so lucky to have found someone like Jerry. The Irishman had been brought up in a good Catholic family. His single mother had struggled to provide for her only son, but she had always loved him. Even when Jerry came out and found himself on the receiving end of bullying and hatred in their small Irish home town, she continued to support him and to make sure that Jerry had felt nothing but loved. A love which Jerry had in turn shared with Mycroft. He felt truly blessed.

He slipped an arm across Jerry's waist and began to draw slow, lazy circles across his stomach. The Irishman stirred and rolled sleepily onto his side, facing his lover.

"G'morning, my love." he said, leaning in for a long, passionate kiss that grew more intense and needy. Mycroft moaned into the contact and pressed his body length against Jerry's.

The morning passed in a haze of languid kisses and slow lovemaking. Neither man needed to work on a Sunday, and there was an easy calm in the house.

This was their life now. Mycroft and Jerry. This man who Mycroft had grown to love so deeply, who had offered his continuous support through the difficult times at home and who had offered a bolt-hole, an escape from the abuse.

Mycroft spared a thought for his little brother, left behind in the family home without love or protection, but Sherlock was nearly 20 years old. He was at university himself now and was spending less and less time at home himself. Thinking about his brother however, made Mycroft realise just how much he still missed him. He made a mental note to give him a call that afternoon.

* * *

**3 years later**

"Too important to call your mother nowadays?" Siger walked away muttering as Sherlock entered the Holmes residence for the summer break. Sherlock knew better than to try to find the right answer to his father's accusations, and he crossed to the drawing room, where his mother sat reading.

"Mummy." he greeted her, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. She looked tired and worn, and Sherlock worried for her. Despite the years of abuse with his mother watching on, playing blind and ignorant as her sons were repeatedly beaten by their father over the years, Sherlock still felt a warm affection for his mother. She was a victim too, and Sherlock had little doubt that during the years that both Mycroft and Sherlock had been absent from the family home, Mummy had become Siger's target on many occasions.

"Welcome home, Sherlock." Mummy answered, not looking up from her book. Sherlock knew this was so she could avoid her son's deductions. Sherlock also knew that this meant that he was right. While he never quite forgave her for letting it happen; for looking on as her children; her babies were beaten and abused, he understood. He always understood that Mummy had been as much a victim as he had.

Siger appeared in the doorway, and Sherlock failed to suppress the shudder that ran through him on seeing his father's stern face.

"Problem, boy?" he growled, crossing too quickly to Sherlock's position. Sherlock hastily shook his head, but even his quick move was too slow. Siger grabbed at his hair, wrapping coarse fingers into dark locks and pulling his son's head backwards.

"You fucking waste of space." he spat, dragging his son towards the stairs and laughing as Sherlock tried desperately to find purchase with his feet on the tiled floor. Sherlock pressed his eyes closed as Siger continued to pull his son up the stairs, and as the door to his bedroom opened, he stifled the sobs that were threatening to come.

He didn't manage to stifle them for long however, as the first blow that fell crossed the young Holmes' cheek and broke his nose. The blows that followed left dark bruises forming on his ribs, thighs and cheeks, and Sherlock cried himself to sleep for the first time in several years.

* * *

**2 more years later**

"Did you already tell him?" Jerry asked, placing the opened wine bottle on the dining table and setting out the 3 glasses.

Mycroft turned from his position at the front window, where he was waiting for Sherlock's arrival, "Of course not." he replied, giving a warm smile, "I wanted it to be our surprise,"

Jerry returned the smile, straightening the glasses a second time and crossing to join his lover; his partner; his fiancé.

As they both watched Sherlock exit the taxi and approach the front door, Mycroft felt his new start to race. How would his little brother take the news? Would be be excited? Angry? Happy? He really wasn't sure.

"Sherlock!" Jerry exclaimed, wrapping his arms around the younger, yet taller man and pulling him into a now familiar hug, "Mycroft has been so excited about your visit!"

Sherlock eyed his brother suspiciously. He could sense that something was... not wrong... but different.

"Mycroft?" he enquired, approaching his elder brother and clasping his hand in an awkward half-embrace.

Mycroft's face broke into a wide smile.

"Sit, Sherlock, sit. We have news."

Sherlock looked towards the chair that Mycroft was motioning at and took the seat. Jerry poured three glasses of wine, passing one to the younger Holmes and a second to his partner before lifting the third and standing alongside Mycroft.

Sherlock could tell that his brother was struggling; trying _too_ hard to keep his composure. Finally, he cracked and the words spilled forth from his mouth.

"Sherlock, we have wonderful news. Jerry and I are engaged!"


	9. Chapter 9

**10 years earlier**

Sherlock sat on the sofa, quiet and contemplative, picking at a loose thread at the corner of the worn velour cushion.

"Mummy has invited me for Christmas dinner." Mycroft set a glass of wine down on the side table for Sherlock and took a long drink from his own. Sherlock looked up from his examination of the thread.

"Just me." Mycroft clarified. "She didn't invite Jerry, of course."

Sherlock nodded, unspoken understanding between them. Jerry would never be welcome at the Holmes home, of course. Father had made that quite clear. Sherlock doubted whether their father was even aware that their mother had invited Mycroft, but he hoped that perhaps the passage of time had smoothed over some of the hostility between his older brother and their father.

Mycroft and Jerry had been together for nearly 10 years, and in a civil partnership for 6 months, perhaps that was enough to convince Father that Mycroft was truly happy, even if he couldn't bring himself to spend time with his eldest son's husband.

* * *

"So Mycroft," Mummy began, pouring a generous measure of after dinner Port into a glass and draining it without hesitation, "How is the job going?"

For the past 6 years, Mycroft had been working at a government office in the city. Eager not to have his eldest son seen as anything less than successful, Siger had found him a position in a city office close to his own work where Mycroft was progressing swiftly up the ladder and greatly impressing the people around him. Siger made a point of ensuring the two never crossed paths however. It was something that, while Mycroft felt somewhat put out by his father's deliberate avoidance, he was also in equal parts relieved for it.

"It is going very well, thank you, Mummy." he replied to his mother, taking an equally eager long drink of his own alcoholic measure. "Jerry has been very supportive too." he added experimentally, watching Mummy's reaction to the mention of his husband's name. The resulting flinch was subtle, but both Mycroft and Sherlock caught it.

"Don't let your father hear you talking about that man." Mummy replied, her eyes flicking to the empty doorway as she stood to refill her glass once more.

Sherlock wrestled with his thoughts for a moment as he drained another glass. His instincts wanted to defend Mycroft and his choices. He so desperately wanted their parents to see how happy his brother was, but he thought better of verbalising the sentiment. He gave a sideways glance at his brother, finding his eyes cast downwards, watching the remaining dark red liquid droplets gather at the bottom of his glass. Mycroft had decided the same. He bit his tongue and held his arguments within him.

Much of the evening passed the same way. Inane chatter and deliberate subject avoidance. Nobody talked about Father (who had taken himself to the pub after their family Christmas dinner and probably wouldn't be home until long after the family had turned in for the night), and nobody mentioned Jerry or Mycroft's personal life. It was a stilted and difficult conversation, and there was a collective sigh of relief when Mummy finally announced that she was going to bed. She had been drinking all day and would be aware of little after she fell asleep.

When the brothers were alone in the drawing room, Mycroft stood, placing his empty glass on the tray and crossing to Sherlock's chair. The younger Holmes remained still, unsure of his brother's intentions. Moments between them had become rare. Mycroft rarely came back to the family home any more, and Sherlock wasn't able to visit the city often. Sitting alone in the room however, there was a palpable tension between them. They had both drunk a little more than they were used to, and they were both feeling it. Mycroft crouched in front of his brother, removing the empty Port glass from his hand and placing it on the tray. He took Sherlock's hand and lifted the bony knuckles to his lips, placing a soft kiss against each one in turn.

"Come on, Sherlock." he whispered, as if afraid that the walls around them could hear and talk, "Let's get you to bed."

Sherlock nodded and allowed his brother to raise him up from the chair and guide him towards the staircase.

* * *

Mycroft jumped as a loud crashing sound roused him from sleep. It took a while for him to realise where he was. He was in his childhood room. Their room. His and Sherlock's. He squinted in the dimly moonlit room and heard another thud from downstairs, followed by a string of curses. Father was home. He glanced across at the sleeping silhouette of his brother in their bed. Sherlock's arm was resting casually across his brother's stomach and the lines on his face seemed softened, content. The outside noises seemed to be climbing the stairs, so Mycroft made the decision to wake and move his brother.

"Sherlock." he whispered, lifting the sleeping man's arm off him and jiggling his shoulder slightly. Sherlock groaned but didn't wake. Mycroft glanced at the door, straining his ears. The banging had stopped, and he could hear his father's cursing from the bathroom down the hall. Mycroft chanced raising his voice a little.

"Sherlock!" he repeated, his voice urgent as he gave his brother's face an experimental tap. Sherlock's eyes opened a crack, and he smiled sleepily.

"Mycroft." he murmured, trying to pull his brother back down onto him. He frowned at Mycroft's resistance.

"Not now, Sherlock." The elder's voice sounded anxious, and Sherlock rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear them and wake himself a little. "Father is home, and he sounds drunk. I think it'd be best if you moved to your own bed." It took a few moments for the words to sink in, but Sherlock soon became aware of the gravity of the situation.

"Right. Yes." he stumbled as he dropped his legs over the side of Mycroft's bed and headed to his own. He pulled down the covers and climbed in between the chilly sheets just as an approaching noise had both brothers' eyes darting to their doorway. The sounds stopped and both held their breath, waiting to see where they moved to next. Mummy's room? Spare room? Back downstairs?

Any of the above options would have been preferable however all were wrong.

The brothers sat frozen in their beds as their own bedroom door flew open, hitting the dresser side and bouncing partially back again with the force of the movement.

"You faggots still awake?" the drunken voice slurred, giving the door a second push, this time closing it with a loud slam.

He flicked on the light to see two terrified faces.

"You fucking useless pair of girls," he began, kicking out at Mycroft's small case which sat at the end of his bed, "look at you both. Stupid pathetic little children cowering in the darkness."

He spat out the insult as he looked from one brother to the next, decided which to aim for first.

"You!" he finally yelled, turning to Mycroft and taking a long stride towards him. "You fucking filthy faggot."

Sherlock's brain chose that moment to abandon all thoughts of logic and self-preservation. He frantically looked around himself for something, anything he could use to defend his brother as Siger began raining down blows with hard fists. Mycroft was curled in a seated position, knees to his chest and arms wrapped above his head as he tried vainly to defend himself against the attack.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock spotted something: a heavy lamp on his bedside table. He leaned across to unplug it, his father still oblivious to his actions, and proceeded to come up behind the vile man whose mouth continued to spit insults and curses.

Sherlock didn't hesitate for a second as he lifted the lamp high into the air and brought it down with a hard crack on the back of his father's head.

Both men froze open-mouthed as their father slumped to the floor, his head gushing a deep pool of red into the worn carpet and his eyes cold and staring.


	10. Chapter 10

10 years earlier (cont.d))

Sherlock dropped the lamp and stood staring at the body on the bedroom floor. His feet felt heavy; leaden; unmoving and his mouth gaped as his breathing became harsh and laboured.

Mycroft uncurled his legs and dropped them to the floor, carefully avoiding the rapidly spreading blood patch that soaked their carpet.

"Oh my God, Sherlock. What did you do?"

Sherlock couldn't move; couldn't breathe; couldn't think.

"I... I... he was... I didn't mean to... he... oh my God..." he stuttered, shakily trying to crouch by their father who still hadn't made any move since he fell.

Mycroft came around and crouched next to his brother. His eyes darted from their father's face to Sherlock's as he fumbled desperately to find a pulse.

Sherlock grabbed one of Mycroft's arms, wrapping his fingers around it and squeezing hard.

"Is he...?" Sherlock's voice cracked, and the question remained unasked. Mycroft didn't need to hear it to know what it was though. He wordlessly nodded and placed his free hand over Sherlock's.

Sherlock, suddenly completely overcome with panic and fear, pulled himself free from his brother and ran to his bed, pressing his back against the wall and rocking nervously, hands wrapped around his knees.

"Oh my god... oh my god... oh my god..." he repeated, over and over, tears falling and leaving damp streaks on his pyjamas.

Mycroft gave his father one last look before crossing over to Sherlock and pulling him close into a tight embrace.

"Shhhhhhh," he whispered, stroking his hand through the soft, dark curls, "Shhhhhh, I'll sort it. It'll be OK, Sherlock. I'll sort it."

* * *

Mycroft tip-toed to the back door and quietly slipped open the latch, letting his husband inside the Holmes residence for the first time, thankful that the house staff were all out for Christmas night now. He leaned in to give Jerry a brief kiss before leading him upstairs.

"This way." he whispered, taking Jerry's hand and guiding him to the bedroom.

As Mycroft pushed open the door, Jerry gasped at the scene. A well-built man - Siger Holmes, Jerry presumed - lay lifeless on the carpet, blood pouring into the worn fibres, and Sherlock was sitting on the bed, rocking back and forth and sobbing loudly.

"Oh my god." he sighed, crossing quickly to the younger Holmes and checking him over. When he was satisfied that, apart from shock, Sherlock was OK, he dropped to the floor to check Siger Holmes' body.

"He's definitely dead." Jerry confirmed, standing and walking over to Mycroft who was hugging himself in the bedroom doorway. "Did you call an ambulance?"

Sherlock's head shot up from his knees at the question, his eyes wide and pale.

"Oh my god," he repeated, trying to stretch out his legs, "they'll arrest me. I'll go to..."

He flattened his feet on the floor and attempted to stand, but his body was failing him. His legs gave way and he crumbled helplessly onto the carpet, coming to rest only inches from his father's body.

Mycroft and Jerry hurried across and each took one of Sherlock's trembling arms, helping him up and sitting him back down on the side of the bed. They sat on either side of him, not releasing their grips on his arms. Mycroft began brushing his thumb across Sherlock's knuckles and slowly, the younger man came back to himself.

Jerry nipped into the adjoining bathroom and fetched Sherlock a glass of water, passing it to the young man who accepted it with a short nod of thanks. He then surveyed the room and took a deep breath.

"Right," he said calmly, when he was sure that both Holmes brothers could handle a discussion about what to do, "I think I know what we need to do."

Sherlock looked up at his brother, asking a silent question. _Can we trust Jerry with this?_

Mycroft nodded. _We can, absolutely. _

Jerry spoke next, his hand wrapped in Mycroft's but his eyes carefully watching Sherlock.

"Your father was drunk, yes?" he looked at Sherlock, seeing the man's lowered head nod in response before continuing. "OK, and I presume that this thing..." he motioned to the two brothers, "... this thing between you two..." Mycroft's expression changed, shocked, _Jerry knew?_ Sherlock didn't flinch, "... Don't look so shocked, Myc." he said, threading his fingers through his husband's, "Of course I have always known. It's not a problem and not an issue right now but... anyway... this thing between you, nobody knows, right?"

At this question, Sherlock did look up, engaging his brother's eyes with a clear expression of panic. He tried and failed to clear his throat to answer.

"No. Nobody." Mycroft answered instead with a squeeze of Jerry's hand.

Jerry nodded. "OK. Then we say that he stumbled in here drunk and tripped and fell." he scanned the room, "He tripped over the case at the end of the bed, knocked off the table lamp and fell and hit his head on it."

Mycroft ran his eyes over the room himself. His case had been knocked over when father stumbled in, and the scene before them didn't differ too much from the story. He turned to Sherlock and reached across his husband to lay his hand on his brother's arm.

"Sherlock?" he said quietly, almost having to rouse the younger man from a trance, "Do you agree?"

Sherlock nodded, and Jerry stood, leaving the brothers to close the gap between them.

"I need to leave, Myc." he said, carefully making his way back to the bedroom door. "I am not here. I was never here. You will need to call an ambulance and perhaps the police. And try to wake your mother. Will she back up any information about your father's..." he paused a moment, looking for a tactful way to put what he wanted to say, "...about your father's temperament?"

Sherlock shrugged as Mycroft made his way to his husband.

"I think so." he replied, pulling Jerry towards him and kissing him softly. "Thank you, Jerry."

The Irishman returned the kiss and nodded. "Call me later and I'll come to the station, if you need me." he said before turning and leaving.

Mycroft watched his lover disappear down the hallway and turned to approach Sherlock who once again sat frozen.

"Come on, Sherlock." he whispered, resting his hand on the man's shoulder, "We need to wake Mummy."


	11. Chapter 11

**(10 years earlier cont.d)**

It was a long, late night. It was well into Boxing Day morning, in fact, by the time the police had cleared from the Holmes residence. Statements had been given, tears had been shed - Mummy's mostly - and the Holmes brothers were both sitting in the drawing room as the last police officer left them at 11am.

Mycroft turned his phone over in his hand, debating whether it was too soon to call Jerry. Maybe it would seem odd if he _didn't_ call his husband. He scrolled down his contacts and asked Jerry to come over. Placing his phone back down on the table, he crossed the room and sat next to Sherlock. The younger man was still trembling, and he settled in to Mycroft's embrace with a long yawn. Mycroft was about to suggest that the brothers went up to bed for a few hours (Mummy had been taken to her room by a policewoman several hours ago), until he remembered that their bedroom was a no-go area. He slid an arm around Sherlock's waist and wordlessly ushered him to the guest room, covering his almost-sleeping form with a blanket before heading back downstairs to wait for Jerry.

Mycroft re-entered the drawing room and poured himself a large measure of Scotch. He took a long drink of the amber liquid, sighing as the burn spread through him. His emotions were all over the place, and he tried to organise his thoughts before his husband arrived.

Their father was dead. Their abusive father. The man who beat them regularly. This was good, Mycroft told himself. Good as long as the police didn't see the need to press on with an investigation. Mummy had been able to give a brief statement and the police seemed satisfied, but they really wouldn't be able to stand up to an intense investigation. An investigation into _how_ the man had died. At the hands of his brother. His beautiful, lost brother.

Mycroft swallowed another mouthful of Scotch around the lump forming in his throat. His poor Sherlock. Could he ever come back from this? Mycroft hoped and prayed that he could. He would need to be there for his brother.

He jumped at the small taps on the drawing room door.

"Myc." Jerry whispered, pulling the elder Holmes into his arms and letting the man break down within them. "My poor darling Myc."

Mycroft let the tears fall as Jerry held him.

* * *

Mycroft awake at 4pm in the second guest room, his body cradled in his husband's strong arms. The afternoon sun was casting shadows on the wall, making dark shadow-trees dance across the floral paper. He awoke feeling drained and with a twist in his stomach, and it took a moment for the previous evening's events to come back to him. As he groaned at the memory, Jerry stirred, pulling him closer.

"Hey there." the Irishman rumbled, placing a soft kiss on Mycroft's cheek. "Did you get some sleep?"

Mycroft nodded, pressing his lips to his husband's. "I need to check on Sherlock." he murmured. Jerry nodded, loosening his arms and pushing himself into a sitting position. "You should."

Mycroft pulled on his trousers and t shirt and headed along the hall to the guest room where he had laid his brother down earlier that day. Finding the room empty, he slowly made his way downstairs. As he walked past the living room, a shape caught his eye. Sherlock was lying stretched out on a sofa, eyes lightly closed, head resting on the arm and fingers steepled under his chin. Mycroft was about to continue in to the kitchen when the shape spoke a single word.

"Mycroft."

Mycroft stopped. How his brother managed to fit so much into those 7 small letters, he never knew. It was like they shared an understanding; a connection; an in-depth knowledge of each other that needed no words. Mycroft nodded and turned back around, entering the living room and sitting alongside Sherlock's feet.

"Sherlock." he responded. He knew his brother needed reassurance, and he hoped he was able to give it.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at Mycroft. "We will be OK, won't we?" he asked, threading his long fingers between his brother's. Mycroft looked at their joined hands before raising his eyes to meet his brother's.

"I think so, Sherlock." he responded, letting their hands rest on Sherlock's leg and allowing his fingers to caress the soft skin beneath the folds of dressing gown. "I think so."

* * *

As Mycroft sat with his brother in the living room, Jerry quietly crept downstairs. He followed his senses, hearing the brothers' muted voices, and stood by the door for a while, listening.

He thought back over the past ten years. How he had met Mycroft and helped him cope with the traumas of childhood. He had given ten years of his life to this man, including a civil partnership and now covering up a murder. _Ten years_, he thought, his mind running through all the experiences they'd shared; all they had; all he knew.

The brothers' conversation fell quiet, and they slipped into a well-practised comfortable silence. Jerry nodded his head. He'd waited. He'd waited a long time. He had waited long enough.

It was time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Present Day**

"It is of the utmost importance that I get this clearance within the next five minutes." Mycroft demanded, leaving the PA at the other end of the line stumbling over her words and muttering her profuse apologies at the 'unfortunate delay'.

Mycroft was unperturbed. "It is no concern of mine whether or not Sir Morton is in an important meeting. Please disturb him and make my request known immediately."

Sherlock smirked. He loved to see Mycroft take control, as long as that control wasn't being wielded over Sherlock himself, of course. Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at his brother's expression while he waited for the young PA to come back to the phone.

Both men knew full well that Sir Morton's 'important meeting' was very likely with one of his three mistresses, and Mycroft had no intention of letting such a liaison take priority over getting his clearance.

He cupped his hand over the telephone receiver and leaned in towards Sherlock.

"Somebody won't be getting lucky tonight." he quipped, knowing that, for high level government employees, work interruptions are little tolerated by their many lovers. Sherlock smiled knowingly and was about to come back with a snarky response when Mycroft's attention was snapped back to the call.

"And that is with immediate effect?" he asked, making it sound more like a declaration than a question. His subsequent nod affirmed that, and Mycroft dropped the phone down once more.

He took a deep, calming breath, lowering his heart rate and returning, momentarily, back to his 'non-battle' mode.

"Counter terrorism are arriving at 8am tomorrow. We have 12 hours." Sherlock licked his lips with an inkling that he knew where his brother was going with this. "We shall have dinner first, Sherlock," he continued, making to stand and circle around the table towards his brother, "and we can discuss how we are going to do this."

* * *

"What do you think he will say?" Sherlock asked his brother, lowering his coffee cup as he watched Mycroft wipe a stray dessert crumb from his mouth. "Do you think he will tell them?" His voice cracked a little with the second question. The memory had been so long repressed that it was almost as if it belonged to someone else. Some other family. Some other lifetime.

Mycroft folded his napkin, carefully placing it down on the table and reached across to take his younger brother's hand. He looked scared. Genuinely completely terrified. In that moment, Mycroft felt such overwhelming emotion for his brother that he himself choked back a sob. Sherlock had been through so much. Their childhood, their father, the consequences they had both had to live with as a result of that... so much.

He glanced around, wary of onlookers but seeing none, and gave his brother's hand a gentle squeeze.

"I shall do my absolute best to ensure that does _not_ happen, Sherlock."

* * *

Mycroft switched off both cameras and audio in the small interrogation room and for a long while, the brothers stood on the safe side of the one-way glass, just watching Jim Moriarty.

"He looks so like his father now." Mycroft turned to Sherlock, noticing how his brother's eyes were almost glued to the bound man. The younger man shrugged. He didn't really remember James Moriarty anyway.

"Do you think he will talk?" Sherlock finally said, looking up at his brother with a look of fear that Mycroft had not seen on Sherlock's face for many years,

The elder Holmes stepped closer to his sibling, taking his hands and rubbing his thumbs over the ridges of his knuckles.

"I don't know, Sherlock." he eventually responded, turning his head to glance sideways through the glass, "I don't know."

* * *

Mycroft Holmes stepped into the interrogation room with an aloof coolness that in every way masked his true feelings.

Being there, in that room, with that man, made his throat dry and his heart race, but years of practise had enabled the Holmes brothers to outwardly portray calm and control under any circumstances.

These circumstances however, were certainly going to be a test.

An exhausted-looking Jim Moriarty lifted his head with a self-satisfied smile.

"I knew you'd come." he said, rolling his neck to remove the stiffness that had settled in from several hours of weary sleep bound to a chair. "You took your time."

Mycroft swallowed hard. He needed to stay in control of the situation and that meant not letting Jim Moriarty get the upper hand.

"Counter-terrorism are coming in the morning." he responded coolly, circling around behind Jim in an attempt to unnerve the captive. "I really don't think you will like their tactics. They have..." he paused, as much for effect than necessity, "... certain _ways_ of making people talk."

Jim raised an eyebrow and licked his chapped and bloodied lips. "Really, Mycroft? Is that what you _really_ want?" the Irishman drawled in a voice that made Mycroft turn his back to the man and close his eyes briefly to regain control.

"I no longer have control over the situation." he replied, sideways-glancing at his reflection in the mirror and knowing that his brother stood watching on the other side. "It is out of my hands."

Jim let out a single bark of laughter.

"Well," he said, shifting in his bonds and fixing his face into a wide grin. "That is rather... unfortunate."

Mycroft turned back to Jim. It hurt him to see the man this way, and he knew that tomorrow things looked even more grim for Moriarty and his network.

He crossed the room and grabbed a chair, pulling it opposite Jim's and sitting close. Their knees were almost touching, and the change in Jim's demeanour, for a split second before he reined it in again, was evident.

Mycroft flattened his expression again and looked up into Jim's dark eyes. Those deep dark pools that were the windows to a soul that hid so much.

Taking a long breath before speaking, Mycroft asked the question that they had been dreading since the moment it became apparent that he could not avoid Jim Moriarty's arrest this time.

"What do you want from me this time?"


	13. Chapter 13

**10 years earlier**

"Mrs Bream," Mycroft addressed the housekeeper as he came back down the stairs from his room, "Have you seen Jerry this afternoon? Did he leave?"

Mycroft had left Sherlock dozing on the sofa and gone back upstairs to the guest room expecting to find Jerry still sleeping. He didn't expect to not find him though. He had checked the bathrooms, the kitchen and even dared to check in Mycroft's own bedroom, but he hadn't found his husband anywhere.

"I haven't, dear." Mrs Bream replied, collecting up the empty glasses from the drawing room. "Maybe he had an urgent call and had to leave?"

Mycroft had never known Jerry to just leave without saying anything but he supposed it was possible. "Thank you, Mrs Bream." he replied, peering across into the living room to check on Sherlock before heading back up to the guest room again.

He straightened the bed covers and reached over to the dresser to retrieve his phone. One message.

_We need to talk. - Jerry_

Mycroft frowned. Since when did Jerry send a text message rather than speak in person?

He hastily tapped the 'call' button alongside the message. He would sort this out by talking even if it wasn't to be face-to-face.

Voicemail picked up with the standard pre-recorded message. Mycroft huffed and hung up, instantly trying a second time with the same result.

"Jerry, it's me. Call me when you get this?" he replied flatly. He hated answer machines.

He ended the call and glared at his phone for a few moments, as if blaming the device for the failing, before tapping in a text reply.

_Is everything OK, my love?- My_

His stomach flipped as he pressed send, realising that it was a question he probably never wanted an answer to, and he was still thinking that over when another text message buzzed in.

_Krafty's old warehouse at 7pm - Jerry_

What? Mycroft's frown deepened again. What was Jerry talking about? Krafty's was an old mill on the outskirts of town, not far from the Holmes residence, but it was, as far as Mycroft knew, abandoned and had been so for some time.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 6.30pm. He briefly considered walking it but decided against heading out on foot in the chilly darkness of December. He lifted his phone again and called for a taxi. It was early enough in the evening to be able to book one without any problems and, in the 20 minutes he had to wait, he decided to freshen himself up and wander back down to check on his brother.

Sherlock groaned when Mycroft gently tried to rouse him. "You'd be more comfortable in bed, Sherlock." Mycroft said, reaching an arm around six feet of sleepy Holmes and pulling him into a seated position. "Let me take you back upstairs."

Sherlock nestled into his brother, inhaling deeply as he buried his nose into his auburn hair.

"You smell good." he mumbled drowsily making Mycroft chuckle as he guided him up the staircase and back into the guest room.

"I have to nip out for a bit, Sherlock." Mycroft leaned his brother down, resting the bed covers over him and watching the younger man almost bury himself in the softness of the pillows. The only response Mycroft got however was his brother's muffled groan in acknowledgement.

* * *

"Krafty's? You're sure?" the taxi driver queried as Mycroft stepped into the back and pulled the door firmly closed, shutting out the bitter December wind.

Mycroft let out a long, intolerant sigh. "Yes, please. Krafty's" he responded impatiently. The man was paid to drive not to question where he was driving to.

The driver shrugged and nodded his head. "Right then."

As the car pulled up alongside the old mill building, the driver turned around to Mycroft. "You needing a lift back, mate?" he enquired casually. Mycroft thought a while before deciding. "No, thanks." he replied, passing the payment forwards and exiting the car. Jerry must have his car so Mycroft decided he could just head home with his husband anyway after whatever he was here for. He wrinkled his face in confusion for a moment as he surveyed the building, wondering where was the way in. He noticed a light on inside what looked like it may have been a reception or office, and pulling his coat around him, he headed for that entrance.

Surprisingly, the door opened with ease, being both unlocked and recently replaced, he wondered, and he stepped inside, glancing around at the large open office space, divided up with half-height partitions.

He didn't immediately see anyone, and so he startled when a voice came from behind a partition nearby,

"Mycroft Holmes." the familiar voice said, becoming clearer as its owner stood up began to walk closer to the man.

"Jerry?" Mycroft frowned. "What are you doing?" He studied his husband carefully. Gone were the trademark slacks and soft wool sweater that Jerry loved so much. Instead of quiet, comfortable, casual Jerry, he stood before Mycroft in a sharp Westwood suit, crisp white shirt and immaculate tie. Mycroft had never seen Jerry look like this. It was almost as if he were a completely different person.

"Jerry?" he asked again, this time his voice betraying every bit of his confusion.

Jerry stepped forwards, a crooked and slightly self-satisfied smile on his face.

"My dearest husband," he began, extending a hand to his partner of ten years, his voice calm and confident, "Jim. Jim Moriarty. Pleased to meet you."


	14. Chapter 14

**(10 years earlier cont.d)**

Mycroft stood, looking at the man who he only knew as his husband, with a face filled with confusion and bewilderment.

"What?" he almost shrieked, letting his voice raise unintentionally as his nerves jangled and his brain whirred.

"Jerry? What are you talking about?"

Jerry shook his head. Poor, confused Mycroft. He really had been sucked in hook, line and sinker. He rolled his eyes skyward and, with a long sigh, pulled out a strangely new-looking desk chair to seat himself. He pushed another one over on its wheels towards Mycroft, waving his arms as an indication to sit. Mycroft looked aghast at the chair before deciding he really did need to sit down.

"Jerry?" he said quietly, starting to doubt even himself. Starting to doubt everything.

'Jerry' shook his head again, his eyes pitying. "Sorry, Mycroft." he began, rubbing his hands across his face before rolling his shoulders and neck. "Jim Moriarty. James Moriarty was my father."

Mycroft felt his stomach lurch, and it was all he could do to stop himself from throwing up right then and there. He blinked back the tears that pricked behind his eyelids and fought to slow his breathing which had started to accelerate rapidly.

Jerry was James Moriarty's son? It didn't make any sense. He had known this man for 10 years. They knew everything about each other; had shared everything.

"Oh god." he whispered as the news sunk in. "Why? Why me? Why now?"

Jerry's... Jim's eyes fell for a moment before he straightened himself again. "I've waited."

Mycroft's deepening frown showed that he clearly wasn't following at all. He was in shock. His husband had turned out to be the son of his father's nemesis, but it still didn't make any sense.

"But what did I do?" he finally asked, his voice breaking under the strain of keeping his emotions under control.

Jim shrugged and stood, crossing to Mycroft who visibly flinched at the approach and started to stand. He'd had enough. He would just leave and forget everything, moving on with his life. Jim grabbed his shoulders, pushing him back down onto the chair and, as Mycroft made to get up again, this time with a more aggressive expression, a red dot of light appeared on his chest.

"Now, now, Mycroft." Jim taunted, his Irish lilt suddenly sounding threatening and so different to how it had ever sounded in the ten years Mycroft had known him, "Please sit. I do have some... trigger-happy friends." He waved his arms about the warehouse office.

"I promise I won't keep you long," he continued, slowly stroking his arm up Mycroft's and into his hair, "I just need to..." he paused again and, with a chuckled, "... fill you in."

"You see, Mycroft, your father is the reason that my father is dead. I originally only wanted to avenge his death; get back at your father for ruining my life. I never imagined that you and I would... well, you know. And you with your job, becoming more powerful than anybody around you realises, I knew that, if I bided my time..." he trailed off, brushing his fingers along his 'husband's' cheek and chuckling at the resulting flinch.

"Anyway, I waited. I waited ten long years." he shook his head in disbelief at his own words, "but I never could have dreamed up what actually happened, Mycroft. Your brother. Your impulsive, ridiculous brother actually _killed_ your father, and you... you turned straight to me. Dear God, " he laughed, coming to stand in front of Mycroft again and leaning in to his face, "it was perfect."

"I fixed it. I fixed it for you and your brother and now you _owe_ me. You. Owe. Me. Big." He punctuated the words, leaving no room for doubt.

Mycroft blinked back more tears, determined not to break down. Not here, not now. It became clear that Jim wanted something. Something from Mycroft? He wasn't sure. He let out a long breath before speaking.

"What do you want from me?"

Jim smiled. Not the genuine, heart-warming loving smile that Mycroft was used to seeing on the Irishman's face, but an evil, cold, calculating smile. A smile that meant nothing good.

"Simple, Mycroft. I want two things. Firstly, I want you to make sure that I am able to 'work' unimpeded. That my network remains hidden and un-investigated and that any time it or I might be implicated in something, you will make it mysteriously go away."

"But I can't..." Mycroft opened his mouth to argue but found himself cut short by Jim's fist coming down on a table, raising a cloud of dust which he then proceeded to brush down off his suit.

"You CAN!" he shouted, his patience obviously wearing thin. "I have watched you." he spat. "I have watched you make things and people disappear. If you want me to keep quiet about what I know, you have no choice." The Irishman's voice returned to its normal level as he finished before he turned back to the nervous Holmes and sat back down on the second chair.

"There's something else." Mycroft said deadpan. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. He knew there was more, and the dreadful twisting in the pit of his stomach gave him a feeling that he knew what it would be.

"Very good, Mycroft." Jim responded, giving the man a 'well done' pat on his cheek. "Very good. There is something else."

He sat back in the office chair, letting the back bounce casually as he continued. "The second thing that I want, my dear Mycroft, is your brother."


	15. Chapter 15

(10 years earlier cont.d)

Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was shock, but as Mycroft re-entered the Holmes residence, he shook. He tried to stop the involuntary movements in his hands and arms, but the more he concentrated on stilling his limbs, the more he shook.

Mummy was sitting in the drawing room and, as Mycroft passed the doorway, she looked at her watch and took another drink.

"Where've you been?" she muttered, voice slurring with the effects of too much alcohol, "Your brother was looking for you."

"Sorry, Mummy." Mycroft turned back to the drawing room and entered, sitting on the chair opposite to his mother and wrung his hands together, concentrating on calming himself.

"That nice policeman called around again." Mummy continued, standing and crossing to the drinks cabinet to pour Scotch into two crystal tumblers. "Strada or something." she continued. She passed one to Mycroft and took her seat again. Mycroft nodded his thanks and took a long drink, feeling the burn as the golden liquid slipped down his throat, instantly calming him.

"Lestrade." he corrected, swilling the amber around in the glass. He looked up at his mother and studied her reaction. "What did he want?"

Mummy shrugged. "He asked me questions about your father. His history. What he was like..." she paused to take another drink, and Mycroft dropped his eyes to his lap, giving her a moment to continue "Asked about what he was like when you boys were growing up. About his drinking. About your relationship with your brother."

Mycroft's eyes shot back up at the comment. "With Sherlock?" he asked, hoping his nerves wouldn't fail him again. Mummy shrugged a second time.

"Yeah, you know. Did you get along with each other as kids. The age gap and all that."

Mycroft nodded. Of course. Just normal family history stuff. They'd find out about the abuse, of course. But nothing more, Mycroft reassured himself.

"Where is my brother now?" he asked, using some considerable effort to keep his voice stable.

"Guest room." Mummy stood and refilled her glass again, offering the bottle to Mycroft who shook his head. She had clearly drunk a lot during the evening and had no intention of stopping any time soon. Mycroft left her to it and went upstairs to find Sherlock. They had much to discuss.

Mycroft stopped just outside the door of Sherlock's guest room, pausing a moment before deciding to go inside.

"I know you're out there, Mycroft." the baritone rumbled. Mycroft shook his head and pushed open the heavy bedroom door.

"Where did you go?" Sherlock asked, sitting himself up on the bed. He looked a mess. His dark curls were even more unruly than usual and his face was pale and tired with dark circles under his eyes.

Mycroft lowered himself down to sit alongside his brother, placing his hand in the long pale fingers.

"I had a message from Jerry." The elder Holmes' voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. It was difficult to talk about, but it needed discussing. There were serious issues at stake.

"Sherlock, Jerry isn't who we think he is."

Sherlock pulled his hand from his brother's and turned to face him, propping one knee up on the bed to get a better position. He lifted a hand and, placing it on his brother's cheek, he guided Mycroft around to face him. Their faces just inches apart, Sherlock could see a thousand emotions ripping through his brother.

"What is it, Mycroft?" he asked. It was clear that something was very wrong.

"Jerry..." Mycroft stalled, trying to swallow the lump in his throat that was trying to choke him, "Jerry is James Moriarty's son. His name is Jim."

Sherlock dropped his hand, jumped off the bed and started pacing. From bed to wardrobe; wardrobe to dresser; dresser to doorway. He pushed the door closed and stood at the end of the bed, visibly breathing heavy and panicked.

He managed to choke out only one word between stuttering breaths. "Why?"

Mycroft looked at his panicked brother and extended a hand to beckon him back down to the bed. Sherlock returned to his brother's side and sat staring at his fingers, watching them wiggle them as if they were moving of their own accord.

"Revenge, I suppose. For his own father. He blames ours for his death. He said that our..." he took hold of Sherlock's fidgeting hands, stilling them, "... our relationship wasn't part of the plan, but he was just waiting for an opportunity to be able to use my increasingly..." he paused, eyeing his brother as he chose his next words carefully, "... powerful position for his own benefit."

Sherlock sighed. He could see where this was going. "And we have now given him the perfect ammunition. Leverage over us. The ability to blackmail you for as long as it suits him?" he filled in for his brother, lifting Mycroft's hand to his cheek and leaning into the touch.

Mycroft nodded. "We have, Sherlock. He has told me that unless I ensure that he avoids detection or arrest at all times, he will go to the police and tell them everything."

Sherlock turned again to his brother, his eyes full of pity. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I really am. I know what Jerry... what your relationship meant to you. I cannot imagine..." he was cut off as Mycroft lifted a hand to stop him, closing his eyes tightly as he fought to stave off the sobs that were threatening to spill forwards at any moment.

"Sherlock," he finally said, putting his hand back in his lap and fiddling with his own fingers nervously. "There's something else Jim Moriarty wants too."


	16. Chapter 16

**Please note: this chapter is deliberately written in present tense.**

* * *

**(10 years earlier cont.d)**

Sherlock glares at himself in the mirror for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time that evening. Every time he does, he sees the same thing staring back. A murderer. A cold-blooded killer. Mycroft tells him it wasn't a cold-blooded kill, but Sherlock can't hear it. Can't believe it. He believes he just became his father using a different outlet for his anger. He clenches his fists tightly and stares down the killer in the mirror.

_Already a killer_, he tells himself. _Why not a whore too?_

Bile burns at the back of his throat as he thinks about what he has to do. His imagination runs wild as he runs through a thousand possible scenarios. What will this man, this Jim Moriarty, ask of him? He has no idea. Mycroft and he couldn't bring themselves to actually discuss what might happen.

Mycroft.

For a moment, Sherlock comes back to himself and thinks about his brother. He's been devastated; broken by the news; by the whole turn of events. Ten years of deceit and Mycroft cannot help blaming himself. He should have seen it. Seen something. Recognised something of James Moriarty in his friend; his lover; his husband. Mycroft withdraws into himself. He barely eats, barely speaks. His face becomes and emotionless mask, a mask that covers the pain.

Sherlock closes his eyes, not bearing to look at the killer-in-the-mirror any longer, and instead, behind his eyelids, he sees the frail, damaged soul of his brother.

He knows that what he has to do is the only thing that he can possibly do to make any of this go away.

* * *

"Sherlock!" The Irishman almost purrs his name as he climbs out of the car that Jim sent for him. The car smells new, of polish and vinyl and leather, and Sherlock knows that it is a smell that he will forever associate with _this_. This event. This man.

Jim approaches him as he closes the car door and, when the car drives away, Sherlock suddenly feels very alone. Very vulnerable. Very "Jim's".

"Come." he beckons, taking Sherlock's arm as if he was a child about to run. "Come, come." he repeats excitedly.

Sherlock drops his eyes and follows Jim's lead. What else can he do?

They enter a plush hotel lobby and even surrounded by hotel staff and evening guests, Sherlock still feels utterly alone. Jim nods to a woman on the desk and retrieves a key card. Sherlock deduces her.

_Mid-thirties, over-made-up with blue eye shadow and hideous red lipstick. Husband is having an affair with one of the maids. _

He resists the urge to smirk at her misfortune. His evening isn't faring much better.

He studies their surroundings like forensics might study a crime scene. It's all he can do to take his mind far, far away from where his body is. Dark patterned carpets line the corridors, and poor copies of old masters hang along the walls lined with tasteless embossed paper.

_Tacky_, Sherlock thinks, but then what would he know?

They don't ride the elevator, instead Jim guides him to the stairs. Sherlock isn't sure why, but he doesn't ask. He doesn't want to give Jim anything. He won't ask. Won't give Jim the satisfaction of being "one-up" any more than he already is. Jim realises this and gives his captive a sideways glance.

"No cameras on the route we took through the lobby or in the stairwell." he says as if Sherlock asked his question anyway. "Can't have your brother's people watching, can we?"

Sherlock ignores him, keeping his eyes down and his other senses alert.

Jim pushes open the stair door and pulls on Sherlock's arm. Arm in arm, almost like lovers - Sherlock wonders if that's how they look to the smiling young couple they pass - they walk along the 7th floor corridor and stop at room 709. Jim swipes his keycard in the lock and it opens with a sickening quiet click.

Jim turns to Sherlock, pushing open the door, and gives him a cold, calculating smile as they enter.

Suddenly, Sherlock is overcome with the desperate need to talk. He feels the question burning in his throat like a cheap Scotch. He takes a deep breath as he wrestles with his own indecision. Should he ask it?

"What do you expect from me?" The question falls out anyway, whether he wanted it to or not. It makes him feel small. It makes him feel sick.

Jim waves his hand at an oversized armchair, indicating that Sherlock should sit. He nods and does as he is told. He isn't the one in control here. He has given up all that. He has given up all hope of control ever again, to protect himself and his family.

"What do you want?" Sherlock's voice is low and pained, and the question hangs in the air like a fluttering balloon that cannot decide which way to float.

Jim smiles as he passes Sherlock a large measure of expensive Scotch.

"Oh, Sherlock," he starts, sinking down onto the chair opposite with a long, self-satisfied sigh, "you cannot even _begin_ to imagine."


	17. Chapter 17

**Please note: this chapter is also deliberately written in the present tense. Future chapters will revert back to usual**

* * *

**(10 years earlier cont.d)**

"It's simple really," the Irishman's voice is flat, emotionless as he grabs one of Sherlock's wrists and pulls him to stand, "and really quite nothing. Four hours of your life for a lifetime of my silence. It's a small price to pay, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock raises up with Jim's pull - _he's much stronger than he seems_, Sherlock notes - and follows his lead to the bed. He bites his tongue and chews on his bottom lip, desperately trying to hold in the thousand thoughts, questions and deductions that are running through his brain. He wants to give Jim nothing. He wants to fight; to run; to hide, but instead he follows silently. He retreats into himself.

"Over here." Jim pushes him down onto the large bed and he sits small, lost and alone. He raises his eyes up to look at Jim and watches him move about the room, opening a small bag and taking out a box. Sherlock frowns and forces himself quiet. His thoughts are deafening but they are better company than he has in that hotel room.

"Now, Sherlock." Jim raises an eyebrow and looks across at Sherlock's deadpan face, "Don't be going all shy on me now. We're hardly strangers, are we? We've known each other for years. Don't ever forget this, Sherlock Holmes. I. Know. You." as he finishes, he picks up the box and crosses to the bed, stopping in front of Sherlock as the box takes a place on the side table.

"In fact," he continues, removing a needle and other items from the box, "I might even claim to know you better than you know yourself."

Sherlock fails to suppress the need to shuffle away from the box and Jim. He sidles across the bed, putting distance between them. Jim, too preoccupied with his task, either doesn't notice or lets it slide... for now.

But Sherlock, Sherlock knows. He recognises the items that Jim handles, the preparation it involves and he knows what it leads to. Is it for Jim? Or is it for himself? Sherlock has experimented in the past at university but he isn't a junkie. He never quite found what he was looking for in those days. No drug gave him quite the peace that he yearned for; the escape from reality; the numbness and the silence.

Jim feels Sherlock's eyes on him and hears the unspoken thoughts.

"Relax, Sherlock." he says, as if it were the easiest thing in the world to do. "I know. I know you've tried this," he points to the side table, "before and it hasn't helped, but this is different. I promise you. Trust me."

Sherlock tries and fails to hold in a laugh at the request for trust. "Trust you?!" he almost shrieks, "Trust?"

Jim shrugs. "It matters not whether you actually trust me or not, Sherlock." He goes back to his preparations.

Sherlock is left to his own thoughts again for a while longer. Is this what Jim wanted? Just to get Sherlock high? Or will there be more? Will he want more from Sherlock 'after'? His mind slips momentarily back to his brother and he pulls himself together again with a shake of the head. He can do this. He needs to do this.

"Right." Jim's voice snaps Sherlock out of his reverie and back to the hotel room. "This drug," he continues, tapping the end of the syringe, "will..." he searches for a word, looking for it in the corner of the hotel room. Sherlock unthinkingly follows his eye line. "it will loosen you up, Sherlock." Jim finishes, laying down the needle and reaching for the younger man's arm. Moriarty sits next to Sherlock and rests the man's arm on his lap, unbuttoning the cuff and pushing back the sleeve.

Sherlock just sits there, detached. He's watching Jim do this. Why can't he move? His legs and arms feel leaden. He desperately wants to run; move; scream; _something_, but instead he sits frozen and staring. Speechless. He watches Jim slip a tie around his bicep and tighten it before wrapping his hand around Sherlock's and squeezing it into a fist.

"Clench." he hisses, and Sherlock does. He clenches and unclenches, mesmerised by the pale blue vein that pops out.

"Nice." Jim smiles, reaching for the needle, and Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his head away. This he doesn't need to see; does _want_ to see. What he wants is to be free. To be a million miles away. to be alone. He barely feels the needle slip in and is only vaguely aware of the plunger being pressed before Jim pushes him down and back, onto the bed.

A few minutes pass - or is it more? Ten? Twenty? An hour? - and Sherlock is suddenly aware of a strange calm. He opens his eyes and realises that he is still lying on the bed, head resting on soft, cool pillows. He turns his head one way and sees the hotel room door, suddenly remembering where he is. He turns it the other way and sees him. Jerry. Jim. Jim Moriarty. He is sitting on the chair alongside the bed.

"Welcome back." the Irishman smiles, glancing at his watch. "Don't worry. It's only been five minutes." he says, as if knowing Sherlock's confusion. "We have plenty of time."

Sherlock frowns and hears only Jim Moriarty's words. Everything else is silent. The streets, the hotel, his thoughts: all silenced. He opens his mouth to speak, unsure yet if he actually can.

"It's so quiet." he mutters, words slurring slightly with his drowsiness. Jim smiles. He knows this. He understands the noise. The endless internal babel.

"It's gooood." Jim purrs, leaning in close to Sherlock and stroking his hand along the slightly confused man's cheek. Sherlock unwittingly presses into the touch, and Jim nods, smiling as he slips his hand down Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock's eyes close, he feels peaceful; calm, and a soft moan escapes him. Jim leans in further, his lips just a mere breath away from Sherlock's ear.

"And this'll be even better." he whispers.


	18. Chapter 18

**(10 years earlier cont.d)**

Sherlock woke the following morning confused and heavy-headed. He blinked hard and rubbed his hands across his face, trying to work out where he was.  
Tacky embossed wallpaper; long heavy curtains; faux antique furniture.

_Right_, he finally realised,_ the hotel_.

He glanced around the room to assess the situation. It was empty and quiet. No Jim Moriarty. All traces of the evening gone. All except for a small box on the side table. Sherlock slowly and carefully sat up, wary of the slight pounding in his head and a dull ache in his back. He frowned as he tried to recall the events of the previous evening.  
He remembered being there with Jim. He remembered feeling... trapped. Unable to move. Unable to run. Unable to fight back. He remembered... he groaned as the memory of the needle hit him. Drugs. Jim had given him a drug. He warily eyed the box on the side table. Was that the same box? He wasn't sure. He frowned at it as he became aware of his accelerated breathing and heart rate.

No, he had to know. He had to know what was in the box. He leaned across and grabbed it, pulling it onto his lap. For a moment, he just ran his long, pale fingers over it, feeling the dents and pitting in the soft wood. Taking a deep breath, he flipped open the small metal latch and lifted the lid.

At the top of the box, lay a piece of folded paper. Sherlock removed it, concentrating on unfolding it before examining the box's contents further. The note was hand-written on quality paper in smooth, cursive handwriting. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before taking another long breath and opening his eyes again to read.

_Sherlock_

_A small present to remember me by.  
Or, should I say, a small present to forget me by._

_If you want to remember, do call. I shall explain all.  
If you'd rather forget, then I hope these help._

_Until we meet again_

_Jim_

Sherlock re-read the note, his breathing stuttering as it became obvious what the remaining contents of the box were. He folded the note again and placed it down next to him on the bed. For a long moment, he just sat and stared ahead into nothing. His heart raced and he struggled to breathe. He could either choose to remember or choose to forget.  
He spent two, five or twenty minutes wrestling with the decision.  
He really did not remember anything much about the previous night except for the feeling the drug gave him. Did he want to remember more?  
Did he want to know why his throat felt dry and raw and his back ached so badly?  
Jim had written that he would explain, if Sherlock wanted to remember. The big question was, did Sherlock want to remember?

Or maybe he should just let it go. He could choose to forget. To leave that door firmly closed; a part of his past better left well behind. The snippets that, in the back of his mind, he had a vague awareness of were bad enough. Maybe he should just let it all go and move on.

The next few minutes passed as if in slow motion as Sherlock turned his attention once again to the box. He next removed a large packet of powder. It needed no explanation. He knew exactly what it was.

Suddenly a flood of memories came back to him. The drug. Its effects. The feeling of calm, the peacefulness, the relief from the endless chatter in his head.  
He had absolutely no idea what happened after that but he remembered the feeling. He remembered feeling good.

It was a feeling he instantly felt desperate to feel again. He longed for it, with an ache deep inside him. A yearning. A need. An absolute overwhelming desire greater than anything he had ever felt before.

He began to carefully empty the box out onto the bed.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice was trembling with worry. "Where have you been? I was up all night waiting. I was so worried."

Sherlock walked into the house, his face calm and still. He looked at his brother's frantic face and frowned.  
Mycroft noted the dilated pupils and an oddly serene look.

"Sherlock?" he repeated, this time more quietly but with a gentle concern. "Are you OK?"  
He guided his brother to sit down in the lounge, pouring him a glass of water from the jug on the table and watching the man down it thirstily. He poured a second and sat alongside him, taking his hand and starting the comforting move of stroking his thumbs over the younger man's shaking knuckles.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked, unsure how much he wanted to know but knowing that his brother might need to share; to half the burden.

Sherlock stared into his glass, watching the cool, clear liquid with a childish fascination as it swirled around, catching on the crystal facets and distorting his long fingers wrapped around the outside. It looked so pretty; so calm; oddly mesmerising.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft repeated, trying to regain his brother's attention. Sherlock looked distracted; not himself at all. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Sherlock took a deep breath before raising his eyes to his brothers and leaning in, curling himself into strong arms. Arms where he felt safe and secure. Arms that would never judge him, no matter how bad things became.

"It's over, Mycroft." he sighed, his voice small but certain. "I've done my bit," he continued, closing his eyes and letting his body relax into his brother's, "now you need to do yours."


	19. Chapter 19

**Present day but 6 weeks earlier.**

As Anthea pushed open the door to Mycroft Holmes' office, she noticed that the man had his head in his hands. She hesitated a moment, trying to decide whether to go back out and come back later, but the moment was broken when Mycroft lifted his head.

"Ah, Anthea." he nodded, waving a hand to beckon the young lady inside, "What is it?"

He sat himself straight in his chair, instantly becoming the cold, expressionless face that the world saw when they looked at Mycroft Holmes.  
Anthea approached cautiously, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Sir," he said, almost changing her mind about speaking at all, "Sir, is everything OK?"

Mycroft sighed. Anthea had worked for him for nearly 10 years, since she was just a teenage apprentice. She knew him well enough to be able to tell when something was wrong, as well as knowing when to leave things alone. She had proven herself to be utterly dedicated and trustworthy many times over recent years, and Mycroft wondered, for a minute, whether he should share a little more information this time.

"You first." he motioned for Anthea to sit and leaned forwards, resting his chin onto his steepled fingers.

"Right." she began, taking the chair opposite and opening a folder onto the desk between them. "You asked me to notify you if there was ever any mention of a man called Jim Moriarty?" She flipped the folder open to a page partway through and turned it to face her boss.

"CCTV recorded this close to New Scotland Yard this morning. I have de-briefed the operator and the tape is temporarily..." she stopped a minute, licking her lips as Mycroft pulled the file forwards to look closer at the image, "... I ensured that the tape was temporarily 'lost', but I do believe that this is the man you asked about?"

She nervously watched Mycroft as he stared at the photo, running his fingers along the image. She could see the visible effect that this man had on her boss. She didn't know what history lay between the two men, but it was clear to her that there was one.

She thought back to one particular incident when Moriarty had appeared on their radar. Anthea had been alerted by one of their CCTV operators that Jim Moriarty had been spotted very near to Mycroft's home. She had called him in the middle of the night and he had arranged for a car to collect her and bring her over. As Mycroft had answered the door to the sophisticated London home, he looked visibly pale and shaken. Anthea had entered, along with extra security, and she had ended up spending the rest of the night and half of the following day cautiously tending to Mycroft's needs. He had been quiet and withdrawn, and it was only later that day that he had gradually seemed to come back to himself. Her boss had never explained to her why the man affected him so much, and Anthea had never asked. It was her job to ensure that his job ran smoothly. If that involved keeping tabs on Jim Moriarty and making him disappear, on the occasions he came up on their radar, then so be it.

"Can I get you a drink, sir?" she asked, concern flooding her features as Mycroft struggled to maintain his composure. Mycroft nodded, and Anthea stood, crossing to the expensive drinks cabinet and pouring a generous measure of expensive Scotch.

Mycroft took the drink, downing half of it before swallowing hard to speak.

"There have been no sighting of him apart from this one?"

Anthea shook her head. "No, sir. None before or since. It's almost as if he wanted this camera to catch him." The end of her sentence became hesitant again.

Mycroft looked again at the image. It certainly did look that way. Jim Moriarty had rarely appeared on CCTV over the past 10 years. Usually, Mycroft only had to make the occasional implication disappear. A file lost; a name dropped; a court case dismissed. The man himself was almost like a ghost; a myth; a superstition; a "Keyser Soze". It was far more difficult to make actual sightings vanish. Fortunately, they were few and far between, but when they did occur, they were usually the precursor to something bad. Something very bad.

"Thank you, Anthea." he finally spoke after finishing the Scotch and placing the empty glass down with a long sigh. "Please keep me posted."

* * *

**Present Day**

Jim dropped his head to hide the smile at Mycroft's seemingly innocuous question. He knew it was absolutely the last thing that the man had wanted to ask yet, from the moment that Mycroft Holmes had set foot into that interrogation room, it was the only thing that needed to be said.

Jim had a plan, of course. He always had a plan. A plan that would see him released on a technicality just hours before Counter Terrorism even arrived in the morning. He never needed Mycroft's involvement. He had never really needed it. Jim Moriarty was resourceful, and his resources ran deeper and dirtier even than those of the British Government.

He also knew however, that when it got down to the wire, Mycroft Holmes would eventually appear in that interrogation room and ultimately offer him anything. Anything to ensure that he kept quiet; that the Holmes brothers' secret was safe.

It was beautiful. Predictable, but beautiful nonetheless.

Jim raised his head again slowly, the evil and calculating smile sweeping broadly across his battered and bloodied face.

"I think, Mycroft, that you know _exactly_ what it is that I want."


	20. Chapter 20

"Jim, please." Mycroft's voice had almost a begging tone as the Irishman's grin broadened further than seemed possible. "Please. You know what it did to Sherlock last time."

Jim nodded. Of course he knew. He had watched from afar the younger Holmes' descent into addiction with a kind of childish glee at the knowledge that he had caused it. He, Jim Moriarty, had caused the complete and utter destruction of Sherlock Holmes, leaving Mycroft; elder brother; saviour of the family name, scrabbling to pick up the pieces of their lives and their family. It was a truly beautiful thing to watch

Of course, it hadn't lasted forever. Mycroft did eventually manage to pull his brother off the streets and into rehab but not before the younger man had suffered greatly. It was clear to anybody who bothered to look that there were still lingering effects of Sherlock's time as an addict. His solitary nature; his manic, unpredictable behaviour; his strained relationship with his brother to name but three.

The Irishman smiled. Yes, he had certainly left a lasting impression on the Holmes family, and while he wasn't happy that this time, Mycroft had failed to prevent his temporary capture, it was with a certain pleasure that it ultimately meant he was able to hammer another nail in the Holmes coffin. It was just a question of "what" and "who" this time. He hummed as he ran over the decision in his mind.

Jim leaned forwards, as best he could within his binds, and looked into the eyes of the man to whom he had given ten years of his life and received ten years of relatively easy criminal activity in return.

"It is time, once more, for your brother to pay, Mycroft. You have had ten years of doing your part. I'll admit that sometimes you did it better than others, but you did what you do best. Now it is time for your brother to do what he does..." Jim paused to look into the mirror, knowing that Sherlock would be watching and listening, even if the recordings had been stopped, "... time for Sherlock to do what he does best." He finished with a wink at the one-way glass.

Mycroft sat forward, his hands on his knees and his face pained; all aspects of his flat, expressionless mask now completely gone as he leaned towards Jim. This Irishman had once been a part of him. He'd had all of Mycroft: heart and soul; everything. Even after everything that had happened in the past ten years, Mycroft was still affected by Jim's proximity. Despite all of his better instincts, the man was intoxicating. A deadly poison that drew him in; wrapped its toxic tendrils around every fibre of Mycroft's being and held him there: suspended in a kind of limbo, with no way out.

Mycroft's move towards him was expected by Jim, of course. He knew all too well the effect that he had on the elder Holmes just as he knew the effect that he had on the younger.

"Please." Mycroft whispered again. "Not Sherlock. I really don't think that this time he could..." Mycroft was cut short by the sound of a throat clearing behind him.

"Mycroft." it began, the rich deep baritone clearly battling to keep its composure as Sherlock crossed the interrogation room and stood beside Jim Moriarty and his brother. Mycroft's lowered head shot up and he stood quickly.

"No, Sherlock." he said, grabbing the younger man's arms and looking at him, his eyes pleading and desperate. "No, please don't do this."

Sherlock shrugged his arms free and moved around his brother, sitting himself on the now-vacant chair opposite Jim.  
Jim was looking from brother to brother, his face fixed in an expression of pure amusement.

"This is beautiful," he began with a chuckle, "It's really very touching, but I think you both forget that I am the one making the rules here."

Mycroft walked to stand behind his brother, resting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders as they both looked at Jim. He felt Sherlock relax slightly under his touch before stiffening up again, putting on an impassive front for the man sat before them.

"You planned this." Sherlock stated calmly. It wasn't a question. It was fact. It was as if everything had suddenly become clear. "This was your intention all along."

Jim laughed, and Mycroft let out a small gasp before composing himself again. Of course. Of course this was planned. Jim Moriarty would never be so stupid.

"You deliberately allowed yourself to be caught on the CCTV." Mycroft continued for his brother, "You allowed yourself to get caught, and for what? To get us here? At what cost to yourself? Counter Terrorism will be here in less than 4 hours, and then what?"

The resulting smirk that crossed Jim's face at the mention of the Counter Terrorism unit was obvious to both brothers.

Sherlock responded with a groan and a head shake. "He won't be here in the morning."

Jim's smirk broke into laughter. An insane laughter that sounded out of place in the doom and gloom of the bleak, grey interrogation room.

"Why bother?" Sherlock asked, fighting to hold down his frustration and anger at the whole thing, "Why go through all of this just to get to us? Why not just approach us directly?"

"Oh, Sherlock," the Irishman started, struggling to speak as the laughter continued, "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock."

Slowly, Jim began to regain his composure, his face settling into his usual mask of evil, guarded contempt and control.

"Really, Sherlock," he continued, leaning towards the younger Holmes with a half-smile and a tilt of the head, "What would be the fun in that?"


	21. Chapter 21

The Holmes brothers sat in an uncomfortable silence in the quiet surroundings of Mycroft's room at the Diogene's Club. Usually, they could spent hours just sitting in a companionable silence. No words needed. An implicit and unspoken understanding between them.

Not today though. Not in the early morning light in that office on that day. There was tension. And lots of it.

Sherlock looked again at the clock. 7am.

"What time did you say Counter Terrorism were due?" he asked his brother, knowing full well the answer but feeling, unusually, the need to put something in the deathly silence between them. Like dropping a stone into a lake that seems eerily calm. Anything to make ripple; to bring life.

"Eight." Mycroft replied. A single innocuous word that held a world of weight in the void of that room. Sherlock glanced at the clock again. Why? He had no idea. It was mere seconds since he had last looked, but the room felt as though time might have both stood still and sped up with inordinate speed, and suddenly, Sherlock had no idea what time it was again.

He closed his eyes and let out a long, controlled breath. Mycroft, as if it were contagious, did the same.

The two men both jumped as the phone rang. Mycroft raised a shaking hand to lift the receiver, almost dropping it first time as he fumbled with it in his grip.

"Mycroft Holmes." he barked, a little harsher than he intended but still more calmly than he felt.

A voice at the other end of the line cleared its throat. Female. Anthea.

"Sir," it began, nerves evident in the tone even of those three, short letters, "Sir, it's Anthea. I just thought you should know that..." a pause, Anthea swallowed hard, unsure how this news was going to be received by her boss...

"Jim Moriarty has been released." Mycroft finished for his anxious assistant. His gaze wondered across to his brother, who was sitting watching Mycroft's every move and expression. Sherlock nodded. They knew. They expected it.

"Right. Yes... Sir." Anthea confirmed. Her voice regaining confidence as it became apparent that her boss was able to deal with the revelation. "Is there anything you would like me to do?"

Mycroft chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. A nervous habit that he had tried to kick in official company but that still came out in the confines of the relative safety and security of his office.

"Thank you, Anthea." he responded swiftly, returning his brother's nod, "That will be all."

His assistant, knowing when to let things go, hung up, leaving the Holmes brothers to their thoughts.

It was several minutes before either man spoke again. The silence, once again, hanging thick between them, painting every molecule of the room with a thick, black suffocating tar that seemed to absorb all sound and all life.

"Sherlock."

Mycroft spoke first. His voice shaky and hesitant. He couldn't bring himself to look at his brother. Not knowing what the man might have to put himself through. It was bad enough knowing what he knew from ten years ago. The effect that Jim Moriarty had on him then. The devastating feeling of being unable to help his brother through the darkest of days.

But now, now he knew what was to come. He knew that whatever it was that Jim had planned for his little brother, he would make sure that it broke them apart. Broke Sherlock and, in turn, broke Mycroft.

For a brief moment, Mycroft considered telling Sherlock to forget it. To refuse Jim's requests and to hell with the consequences. Except, of course, those consequences would be Sherlock's also. After so much time had passed, was it really feasible to expect the world to believe that Sherlock killed their father in self-defence or in defence of Mycroft?

Mycroft doubted it. Sherlock could very well find himself in prison, not to mention the damage that it would do to Mycroft's own career.

Sherlock had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that whatever Jim Moriarty had in mind to dish out was preferable to the very real prospect of prison and destroying both of their lives.

Mycroft sighed and looked up at his brother who was watching him with knowing eyes.

"I know." the younger man said, standing to cross over to where his brother sat and placing his hands on the elder's shoulders. "We both know that this is the only solution, Mycroft."

Mycroft rested his cheek against his brother's hand, sighing deeply as the younger squeezed tenderly on the taut muscle.

"I know you are correct, Sherlock." he began, placing his hand atop Sherlock's, "but it does not make me feel any better about it."

Sherlock nodded. He knew his brother felt responsible for their situation. It was Mycroft that Sherlock had been trying to protect when he attacked their father, and it was Mycroft who had 'messed up' allowing Jim to be caught and leading to their current predicament.

"It is not your fault, Mycroft." Sherlock reassured, not for the first time in the last 48 hours. "This time though," he continued, his hand sliding down along his brother's bicep, a move that once again, Mycroft leant into, "this time, I am ready for what is to come. I do not intend for Jim Moriarty to break me a second time."

Mycroft stood and turned to face his brother, taking Sherlock's hands and holding them firmly, as if trying to hold him there; keep him safe; protect him.

"Sherlock, just promise me," he said, his eyes pleading to his sibling, "just promise me that you will come back to me afterwards and allow me to pick up the pieces."


	22. Chapter 22

"Apologies for the delay, sir." the younger man nervously held open the car door as Jim Moriarty moved past him, giving him a sidewards glance filled with contempt. "There were some..." the man hesitated, unsure of his boss's reaction, "... some difficulties in getting the release coordinated."

Jim pulled the door closed, all but cutting the man off in mid-conversation, and rolled his eyes as he rounded the car and climbed in the other side.

"Sebastian," Jim spat, leaning in to the employee with a look that seemed more like he was intent on killing him than speaking to him. Jim took a deep breath and composed himself. His time in the cell combined with the time spent with the Holmes men had rattled him more than he was ready to admit.

"Sebby, " he repeated, his voice rather more calm this time, "Please do not play nervous with me. I know you better than that, and I'm not buying it. There were complications? Fine. I'm out before CT arrived and that's all that was required. And anyway, I have a job for you. An important one."

Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief. He had been fairly certain that Jim wouldn't be too angry at the slight delay but others had been whispering that Jim wouldn't tolerate it; would make him pay. Jim raised an eyebrow at Sebastian and slid closer to him on the back seat of the car as it began to pull away. He laid a hand on the younger man's thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I have missed you." he whispered, leaning in to Sebastian and, with his free hand, pulling his face around and pressing their mouths together. "If anything," he continued, between kisses and heavy breaths, "the delay just made me need you even more."

Sebastian groaned and allowed the Irishman to take charge. He always did. Jim was his boss and that position was final whether at work or in the bedroom. If Jim said "jump", Sebastian's only response would be "how high?". Never questioning his orders. Always knowing his place. Jim needed Sebastian and that made Sebastian feel good. It was a pure physical need. A stress relief. A way to let off steam. Sebastian supposed that, if he thought about it, Jim used him, but he didn't really mind. It made him less dispensible. And it sure as hell turned him on.

Sebastian let slip another moan and Jim broke off the kiss suddenly. He sat back against the smooth leather seats and straightened himself up. He needed a shower badly. He had been brought a change of clothes when he was cleared for release, but he hadn't had the opportunity to do much more than a quick clean up before he left. He readjusted his tie unnecessarily and leaned forwards to the driver.

"Change of plan," he dictated, "Drop me by location C first. I have some things I need to do there."

The driver nodded, flicking on an indicator as he prepared change his route.

Jim leant back again and sighed. He had so much to do. So much to prepare. A sudden rush of adrenaline flowed through him at the prospect of what was to come. The game. It was all about the game. Even after twenty years, the game still excited him. Mycroft dancing to his merry little tune and Sherlock... Sherlock. Jim shuddered again as he thought about Sherlock.

He glanced at his watch. He figured they had about 25 minutes before they would arrive at "location C". Time enough to give Sebastian his instructions.

"Seb," he began, snapping his employee to attention with a click of his fingers, "After we are done at C, I need you to prepare location F for me." Jim looked sideways, observing Sebastian's reaction carefully. Sebby had never been to location F in the 9 years they had been working together, but he knew that the place had a reputation within their network. Sebastian's reaction was subtle. 9 years of working for Jim Moriarty had taught him to hide his feelings and reactions to such things but a slight raise of the eyebrow showed that he did know of location F's reputation.

"Location F, Sir?" he enquired, inwardly grimacing at his feigned ignorance which he knew Jim would not be fooled by.

Jim let out a loud sigh and stared straight ahead, as if boring a hole in the back of the chauffeur's head.

"Yes, Sebastian," he replied with deliberate use of the man's full name, "Location F."

He forgave the man his brief trangression. He rarely tolerated such a thing but this was important and he didn't have time to play games. Not when he had a bigger game to play.

"I need you to ensure that it is prepared in accordance with Scenario K guidelines." He turned his head and body to face Sebastian square on. "Now, you do know what that means, yes?"

His voice said "Don't mess with me. Don't play games. Don't give me any bullshit" and Sebastian quickly nodded his head.

"Yes, Sir." he replied, swallowing hard at the unspoken but clear as day threat behind the look. Scenario K. Sebastian had heard about both Location F and Scenario K but he had never heard them both used together. He forced himself not to think about what Jim was planning, knowing that his boss would spot his train of thought instantly.

"Good." Jim's face relaxed, and he turned to watch out of the window. Hundreds of people milling around, going about their every day lives, completely oblivious to everything. Drones; rats. Rats who would dance to Jim's Pied Piper's tune if he felt so inclined.

"First, we are going to C. I need to get cleaned up, and I most certainly need you..." he stopped to look at Sebastian, his trusty employee, who was hanging on his every word, ".. I need you to help me."


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock had spent much of his adult life not caring what time it was. He was rarely bothered what day of the week or what month it was even. But today... today, he was looking at his watch over and over again. He glanced at his phone, frowning at the time on there too.

7.36pm.

19.36h.

24 minutes to 8.

24 minutes until...

"Sherlock?"

John's voice was quiet, deliberately so; hesitant.

Sherlock blinked but remained silent. He looked at his watch again.

7.37.

John faltered for a moment, visibly wrestling with indecision. Stay or go? Speak or not? Even without looking at him, Sherlock could tell he was frowning before he turned on his heels and disappeared into the kitchen.

The whosh of water filling the kettle.  
The click of the switch.  
The soft rumble of water beginning to boil.  
The clink of a tea cup.  
No, two tea cups.  
Tea bags.  
The whirr of the fridge as John retrieved the milk.

Sherlock listened to every click, whirr and clink, drinking them up as if they were the last sounds he would ever hear. Even in the deafening silence of 221B, the sounds seemed soft; muted; dull in his head. Drowned out by the rush of blood and adrenaline coursing through him.

_Nerves_, Sherlock thought. He continued to sit in a trance-like state until John re-entered with two teas.

He placed both down on the coffee table and made the unusual move of taking a seat on the sofa next to Sherlock. The detective mindlessly lifted the teacup without turning to look at his flatmate.

John audibly swallowed before speaking again.

"Sherlock?" he began, taking a drink of his own hot tea, "Is everything OK?"

For a split second, John was sure he had seen something on the detective's face. A fleeting emotion. A slight twitch. Sentiment? John's frown deepened and he took a moment to steel himself to probe further.

"Sherlock. I know you've been spending quite a bit of time with your brother lately." John paused a second, seeing that flash of something again before continuing, "Is this just your brother getting under your skin again, or is there something going on that I should know about?"

Sherlock took a long drink of his tea and leaned forwards to replace the cup on the table. He licked his lips and momentarily closed his eyes, trying to still the pounding in his chest and the roar in his ears.

He had never spoken to anybody about their family history. Nobody. Not even those ghastly therapists that Mummy had arranged for them after their father's 'untimely and sudden' passing. No one knew. Not even Lestrade despite his involvement with the family on and off for the past ten years, since he first appeared at the Holmes residence. Lestrade had become the closest thing that Sherlock and Mycroft had to a friend at times, pulling Sherlock from a crack house and into Mycroft's care when the younger man had hit rock bottom. But not even Gregory Lestrade knew the depths of the Holmes brothers' problems.

Sherlock turned slowly to look at John. His flatmate; his colleague; his blogger; his friend. In that split second, he was torn. He had a strong desire to keep everything between himself and Mycroft. Self-preservation and that of his brother. Their family secrets involved his older brother as much as himself, and Sherlock felt in no position to discuss even parts of it, with anyone, without his brother's prior approval.

On the other hand, sat there, in that room, with probably the only person in the world who Sherlock had ever considered to be his true friend; a man who would kill for him; who would risk his life for him and for whom Sherlock had discovered he would not hesitate to do the same; a good man; an honest man; John Hamish Watson; his friend, he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge; a strong and desperate need to share everything.

He bit down on his bottom lip in an effort to hold back the words that threatened to spill forth from his mouth and glanced down once more at his watch.

7.46pm. The car would be here soon.

The car that Jim Moriarty was sending for Sherlock.  
To take him god-knows-where to do god-knows-what.

Sherlock had tried to pretend that he was OK with this. He had reassured his brother over and over.

"I can handle this, Mycroft." he said, his voice waivering only slightly, "It cannot be worse than before. At least I have an idea of what to expect now. And it cannot be worse than going to prison, can it?" Sherlock was adamant, and Mycroft knew that they had little choice in the matter.

Jim always got what he wanted, and the Holmes family were in no position to argue with his demands.

Sherlock had tried and failed to delete what he could remember of the events that had happened ten years ago. He had tried locking it away in his mind palace - the abuse, his father's death, Jerry, Mycroft's desolation and what he could remember about what happened with Jim. He had tried piling it all into one room and locking it away, but something always spilled out; leaked around the doorframe, out of the keyhole, wrapping its black, oily tendrils around the door handle and letting it all spill back out again, flooding his mind with memories and feelings.

His solution, for a long time, was cocaine. The absolute relief that he got from the drug potency that Jim had introduced him to was all that kept him from going completely crazy for several years. He isolated himself from everyone and everything and plunged himself into a dark world of endless highs in a bid to escape.

Finally, after being pulled, emaciated and almost dying, from a crack house by Lestrade on a drugs bust, Mycroft forcibly had him admitted to a rehab centre and slowly, he began to get clean and find alternative methods of coping.

He had little doubt that Jim Moriarty planned to seduce him with promises of the peace and relief he had previously found in the drugs, and he suspected that there would be no discussion about it; no options; no choice. It would happen and Jim would carry out whatever unspeakable plans he had in place.

Afterwards, Sherlock knew he would have to fight harder than every to resist being drawn back into drugs again.

He just hoped that his alternative coping methods were enough.

Sherlock felt the sofa cushion shift as John shrugged and stood up, crossing to his armchair.

"I'm here if you decide you do need to tell me, Sherlock." he said, his voice sounding exasperated; reasonably enough, Sherlock thought. "I just thought that maybe... maybe I could help."

Sherlock raised his head and looked over at John, giving him a forced, but he hoped at last partly-convincing smile and a short nod. He checked his watch again. 7.59pm.

He stood and crossed to the window, just in time to see a sleek black towncar pull up, not unlike those Mycroft used.

John got back up and peered around Sherlock to look out of the window.

"Mycroft's again?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock's eyes darted to the side, briefly looking at John who was still staring down at the car in the street below.

"Better not keep him waiting, eh?" the doctor quipped with a quick wink and a nudge with his elbow.

* * *

Sherlock climbed into the towncar, giving one last look up at 221B's living room window to see John giving him a jovial wave. He rolled his eyes in response, trying to seem like everything was normal, but inside, his stomach was turning somersaults.

As he pulled the door closed behind him, a voice from the other side of the car startled him.

"Mr Holmes, I presume?" the man was well-spoken but heavy set. Someone who could definitely have 'convinced' Sherlock to come along, if he had been inclined to put up a fight. As it was, there was little point. Sherlock was resigned to his fate.

"You presume correctly." he answered flatly, deliberately turning away from the man and looking out of the window as the car pulled away.

"Right." the voice continued. "Well, Mr Holmes, I am sorry to have to do this..."

Sebastian Moran leant across the back seat of the car and, in one swift move, slid a needle into an exposed area of Sherlock's long neck.

"Sweet dreams, Mr Holmes."


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock awoke completely disorientated and groggy.

It was dark. No, he was blindfolded.

His head began to pound as he instinctively tried to reach up and remove the blindfold.

Right, arms tied too.

He began twisting and turning, panic building and tried to shout out, managing only a weak "Mycroft" through his thick, dry throat.

He frowned, trying to remember what had happened. He remembered getting into the car, the man and ahhh, yes, a needle. How unoriginal.

Sherlock let out a long groan as his head gave an objection to the increased efforts of memory and movement, and just moments later, he heard footsteps approaching.

"Sherlock!" the Irish voice sang, "So lovely of you to join me."

The footsteps got closer and Jim removed Sherlock's blindfold, causing the detective to squint at the brightness of the room. He blinked a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus and attempted to clear his throat.

Jim snapped his fingers and Moran appeared with a glass of water.

"Here, drink." the Irishman instructed, holding it to Sherlock's lips and tipping slightly, allowing the detective to soothe his hoarse throat. "I do apologise for the sedatives. It's crude, I know, but it was necessary. Unfortunately, they do have the side effects you are now experiencing." He tipped the glass a second time as Sherlock drained the glass.

Jim passed the glass back to Moran and nodded towards Sherlock's back. Moran came around and untied Sherlock's arms, edging back slowly once the detective was freed.

Sherlock nodded his thanks and raised his hands to his face, rubbing them over his eyes and pressing the heel of one hand against his temple. His head was still throbbing, and it was making him feel nauseous.

"Need something for that?" Jim asked, eliciting a frown from Sherlock. Normally, he might have considered it, but the circumstances were far from normal. Accepting anything, even if only painkillers, from Jim Moriarty felt like a bad idea.

"Thank you, no." He shook his head and closed his eyes briefly against the pain.

"OK, right." Jim smacked his hands down on his thighs decisively, causing Sherlock to frown somewhat at the sudden noise, "well, I suppose we'd better get to it then, eh?"

Sherlock eyed Jim suspiciously and took the opportunity to roll his shoulders and stretch out his unbound arms. He wasn't sure how long he had been out, but it felt like forever. He felt stiff and sore and groggy as hell.

"Less than an hour." Jim said, standing and crossing to the back of the room, answering Sherlock's unspoken thoughts, "You were out less than an hour. Just long enough to transport you here to this wonderful place." The Irishman waved his arms around himself, and Sherlock followed them, taking in his surroundings now that he was un-blindfolded and his eyes were working again.

"A hotel?" Sherlock questioned, eyebrow raised in surprise, "How obvious!"

Jim sighed. He had forgotten how irritating the young 'consulting detective' could be with just a few words.

"Yes, Sherlock, a hotel." He walked back to where Sherlock was standing and extended a hand for the young detective to take. "I thought you would prefer to be comfortable. I know I would."

Jim cocked his head at Sherlock when the detective ignored his outstretched hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed for it, making a point of holding particularly tightly - a move that Jim pointedly ignored.

"Out of interest," he continued, guiding Sherlock to an oversized bed and pushing him to sit, "what DO you remember?"

There was a long silence in the room. Despite the lack of clarity in Jim's question, it was absolutely and without question obvious to what he was referring. Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed around the returning thick feeling in his throat.

When he re-opened his eyes, Jim had moved to sit in a large armchair positioned close to where Sherlock was sitting on the bed. He was leaning forwards, as if engrossed in conversation, as he waited for Sherlock's reply.

Sherlock shook his head, partly in response and partly to clear his thoughts. The few memories he did have plagued him, and much as he had tried, he had been unable to delete them completely. He felt sure that Jim knew this.

"Nothing." he finally replied, his voice giving off a faux confidence that he certainly didn't feel. "I don't remember anything."

"You know full well that the drugs..." he paused a second as Jim leaned in even closer, "... the drugs took care of that."

Jim nodded and sat back in the chair.

"And since then?" he questioned. Another half-question which needed no clarification. Sherlock lowered his head and began to study his fingers.

"I have felt no desire to explore further." was all he said. The Irishman shrugged.

"Such a shame." he pouted, extending his arms in front of him and admiring his own perfectly-manicured nails. "It was quite... something."

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at Jim. The man was clearly enjoying seeing the young detective's discomfort and that alone was making Sherlock feel even less at ease.

"And so it all starts again?" he asked the Irishman, whose face, on seeing Sherlock's obvious anxiety, had broken into something of a maniacal grin.

"Oh no, Sherlock." Jim responded, clapping his hands with an almost child-like glee. "This time will be different; better. Oh yes, SO much better." He stood and walked forwards, stopping only when his knees were almost touching the detective's.

"This time," Jim grinned, leaning down to place his hands on Sherlock's thighs, "You will remember EVERYTHING."


	25. Chapter 25

Bright light.

It hits Sherlock right in the back of the eye sockets, piercing into his brain like a barrage of hot needles. He tries blinking against it but the searing pain bites into his brow line as he does. His whole body feels numb apart from the pain in his head.

He holds his eyes closed gently, the only thing he finds gives him any relief, and brings his other senses into play.

Smell.

_Vaguely familiar - lavendar room spray - cheap pot pourri - the hotel room._

_Cologne - Jim's. _He knows this with certainty. It is a scent he associates with Jim. It makes him feel sick to the core, and the 'consulting criminal' no doubt knows it.

_Perfume? - unknown person?_

_Unidentified musky odour. _Sherlock thinks he knows this smell but he blanks the thought for now.

Sound. Sherlock strains his ears to hear over the roaring of blood and adrenaline in his head.

_Muted voices - in a bathroom? - Jim and an unidentified male. _

_No, wait. The man from the car._ Sherlock remembers that voice now.

_Stuttering breaths in the room with him - someone anxious - or sobbing._

_Female? The same female wearing the perfume?_

Sherlock isn't sure, but he thinks so. There's someone else in the room with him.

Jim and the man from the car are in an adjoining room. A bathroom, perhaps, leading off the hotel's bedroom.

Sherlock holds his breath so he can listen harder to the breathy sounds.

Muffled. Stifled? Gagged? Perhaps. He isn't sure.

He experimentally opens his eyes to get a look at her but instantly clamps them closed again. Something wrong with his eyes. Everything is so bright. Too bright. As if he is staring into the sun. He has no recollection of being drugged though. In fact, he does remember Jim telling him that he would remember everything this time so drugs seem unlikely.

Perhaps it is just his eyes. He's read about mydriatics. Perhaps Jim has used some on him. He shakes his head minutely to focus his thoughts. The cause does not matter right now.

Without knowing where exactly in the room he is or what he is facing, he extends an arm in front of him. He isn't tied. He can move freely. He flexes his ankles to get the circulation going again. The numbness is wearing off now.

"Hello?" Sherlock tests his voice, keeping the range and volume low, hoping that whoever is in there with him will hear but the duo in the bathroom will not.

"Hello?" he repeats, "Is there someone there?"

The faltering breaths pause for a moment, perhaps uncertain whether to reply. Not knowing who Sherlock is and if he is friend or foe. Sherlock feels his own breathing begin to quicken, for a brief moment uncertain himself.

"I... I can't move..."

A voice answers. Not gagged then. Female. Young. Teen, maybe. Scared, obviously. Sherlock clears his throat and tries to sound reassuring.

"I can't see you." he says calmly, "But I can move. Where in the room are you?"

He hears the girl let out a sob before she answers.

"I'm on the bed. I'm tied on the bed. He..." She stops, unable to finish, and Sherlock's stomach churns as he has some idea of what Jim plans for her.

"I'm Sherlock." he offers, hoping to distract the girl, even if only for a short while, from her discomfort. "I'm here against my will too." he finishes, hoping this fact will reassure her somehow.

"Cassie." she responds with a broken voice. "But... but you're not tied up?"

Sherlock suddenly realises how that must seem to this young girl. To an outsider, it must look as though Sherlock is there by choice. He is untied, unharmed for the most part. He came willingly, got into the car without a struggle or resistance.

"No, I'm not." His voice is low and he tries to move on; to maintain the distraction while he has opportunity. Maybe he can learn something from the girl herself about where they are or what Jim is up to.

"How old are you, Cassie?"

"Fourteen."

Sherlock stifles his shocked response, biting down on his lip. He suddenly realises that anything he does now could be the wrong thing. He feels hesitant even to cross the room to comfort Cassie, knowing that it would appear that he is able to leave at any time to fetch help. He seems far more like an accomplice than a victim.

"Where are you from, Cassie?" It's not the question he really wants to ask. He wants to know where was she taken from? How did she get here? How long has she been here? What have they said and done to her? But he realises these questions are insensitive, and in the past 18 months or so, John has taught him to have some sensitivity and tact when dealing with vulnerable people.

"I live with my Dad in Hackney." Cassie's reply is hesitant. She is unsure whether she should be sharing this information. "A man gave me a lift home from school. I thought it was one of my Dad's friends. He was... my Dad said one of his friends would be picking me up."

Her voice trails off and she begins to cry again.

"It's not your fault, Cassie." Sherlock can sense that the teenager is blaming herself. "You really weren't to know that he wasn't who you thought he was." He gives the next question careful consideration.

"Have you ever met either of these men before, Cassie? Do you recognise their voices?"

Cassie is silent for a moment, and Sherlock listens for those two voices in the bathroom. They've gone silent. He tenses up as he employs all of his senses to try to detect something; anything. Movement; sound; smell.

"Well, well, well." The familiar Irish brogue purrs, getting closer to Sherlock, "this is cosy." He leans in further to Sherlock and whispers in his ear, "Do you like her, Sherlock? You should see how incredible she looks." The smile is evident in the man's voice. "Ah, but of course, you can't SEE her, can you, Sherlock?"

The detective becomes aware of a change in Cassie's breathing as he hears the other man move to where he thinks the girl is tied. She starts to cry out, but the sound is quickly muffled, likely by the other man's hand.

"Sherlock, Cassie," Jim begins, standing and positioning himself between Sherlock and the bed, "I'd like you to meet Sebby."


	26. Chapter 26

John started slightly as he heard the downstairs door open, and he glanced at the clock. 9pm. Sherlock was back early then.

The doctor didn't turn around when the living room door opened, but he did when his attention was sought by a clearing throat.

"Please accept my apologies for the intrusion, John."

John turned in his armchair, to see Mycroft standing in the living room doorway, leaning on his trademark umbrella and examining the nails on his other hand.

"Jesus, Mycroft." John got up from his chair and headed, on auto-pilot, towards the kitchen, "I thought you were Sherlock. Tea?"

"Thank you, John. I will." Mycroft's face gave nothing away. John stopped briefly to peer around the man.

"Sherlock didn't come back with you?"

A brief expression of confusion crossed the elder man's face before he reigned it in and restored the blank façade.

"Ah." He stumbled over his reply, instantly raising John's suspicions, "No, he isn't with me."

John froze mid-way to the kettle. Something wasn't right here. Mycroft rarely made visits to 221B, and he especially didn't make them when Sherlock wasn't home. Plus, Sherlock was supposed to be with Mycroft. There was something very wrong with this whole scenario.

He abandoned the tea and re-entered the living room, approaching Mycroft and standing almost toe-to-toe with the man.

"Mycroft." John's voice was firm; unwavering, "Where is Sherlock?"

Mycroft licked his lips and began to chew nervously on his bottom lip for a moment before deliberately stopping himself.

"Doctor Watson," he started, making pointed use of John's title, "I think it would be better if we sat down, don't you?"

"Right, yes. OK then. I'll make the teas." John headed back to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, returning several anxious minutes later with two mugs of tea.

"So," John wasn't beating about the bush any more. There was something amiss and it clearly involved his flatmate, "Where is Sherlock? I thought he was with you? I watched him get into your car."

Mycroft nodded. Clever of Jim, he supposed, to use a car similar to those that Mycroft himself used. Sherlock had obviously chosen to let John believe that it was one of Mycroft's car picking him up. Mycroft wished that he had known that before he had decided to call round to Baker Street.

Damage limitation, he decided. Mycroft needed to do some of that now.

"I can assure you that my brother is perfectly fine." he lied, knowing his face couldn't be read by someone like John Watson. His brother would have spotted it in an instant, of course. "He is safe, and I am sure he will be back soon." Mycroft nodded, almost as if he was trying to convince himself of his own lie.

John let out a half-laugh before returning to his serious face.

"Now I _know_ there's something wrong." the doctor said, leaning forwards in his chair towards Mycroft who was sitting in Sherlock's. "Do you even know where he is?"

The accusation that he might be ignorant of his brother's location or situation rankled Mycroft, and he made little effort to hide his increased irritation.

"Doctor Watson," he began, all but spitting out his brother's flatmate's name, "I assure you that I am well aware of my brother's situation." He stopped a moment, briefly closing his eyes in an attempt to regain his usual composure, "Beyond that," he continued, his voice only slightly steadier, "I am unable to share any more information with you at this time."

"What the actual fuck, Mycroft?!" John's voice rose, drawing Mycroft's eyebrow along with it. He had rarely seen John lose his temper and, on the occasions when he had, it was usually directed at Sherlock, not Mycroft.

"Sherlock is my friend! If there's something going on that I should know about... if he's in some sort of trouble..." John sighed and slumped back in his chair again, shaking his head. "Mycroft. He's my friend. After all this time and everything we have been through..."

John stopped, his glare fixed on the elder Holmes opposite him. Mycroft looked... affected. John couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he could see Mycroft's exterior beginning to crumble.

"There really is nothing you or I can do to help my brother, John." Mycroft sounded calmer; resigned, perhaps, to his own uselessness in the situation. "The best thing we can do is to just await his return."

John flew out of his chair, startling Mycroft who sat, like a rabbit in the headlights, as the usually shorter frame of John Watson towered above him.

"You're the British fucking government, Mycroft. What do you mean you can't do anything about it?"

Mycroft held up his hands, hoping to placate Sherlock's irate flatmate. No, his _friend,_ he corrected himself mentally.

"John." Mycroft stood, raising himself to full height with his hands still held out in a gesture of peace, "Please, sit." As John moved to do so, Mycroft lowered himself back down onto the chair again, making no effort whatsoever to disguise the myriad of emotions that were displayed all over his face and in his body language.

"John. What, if anything, has my brother ever told you about our father?"


	27. Chapter 27

John listened intently as Mycroft began unravelling the Holmes family past. The few times he tried to interject, Mycroft raised his hand to stop him. The elder Holmes knew that, once he had started this story, he had to finish it, so John sat and listened.

He felt his heart break when Mycroft related snapshots of their abuse at the hands of their father and indifference from their mother, frequently closing his eyes to prevent the tears that he felt threatening to fall. Mycroft was careful not to let slip any reference to the incestuous relationship in which he and Sherlock were engaged during this period, of course, deeming it unnecessary to share.

John heard all about Jerry and, for a short while, his heart warmed to the kind man who had meant so much to Mycroft, but he was confused by the lack of fondness with which Mycroft himself spoke of the man. John almost opened his mouth to question but thought better of it.

It was apparent that the Holmes brothers had suffered a difficult childhood and early adulthood. John wondered briefly why they never fought back. It didn't make any sense. As Mycroft and Sherlock became adults, their father was still taking opportunities to abuse them, and John couldn't understand why these two apparently strong and grown up men didn't just fight back. He clenched his fists as Mycroft told of an occasion when Sherlock, in his early twenties, was dragged by his hair and beaten. He couldn't imagine his flatmate so vulnerable and could only begin to imagine what kind of a hold Siger Holmes must have had on the pair.

"You must be wondering," Mycroft stopped his narrative to address something that he could see was troubling John, "why my brother and I never fought back?"

John looked up sharply and blinked to clear his eyes and his mind.

"Umm, well... yes." He replied honestly. Not much point hiding it from a Holmes. "Why didn't you? Surely the two of you could overpower your father enough to..." he didn't finish the sentence. He wasn't even entirely sure what they could do. He just couldn't bear to imagine them just letting it happen.

"Well, yes." Mycroft's soft reply came. "Unfortunately, the hold that our father held over us was long-standing and firm. In all honestly, John, it never really occurred to us, even in our adulthood, that we _could_ fight back. We were young; weak; pathetic. That was what we had been brought up to believe, and it never crossed our minds that we were, in fact, none of those things any more."

John nodded. He understood that. Not first-hand, obviously. He had been fortunate to have been brought up in a loving family home, but he had been a doctor long enough to have seen his fair share of abuse cases - children and adults. Wear a person down enough emotionally and you can pretty much get away with anything- whatever the age of the victim.

He cringed at the image again, his stomach turning at the thought of the Holmes brothers, of all people, being abused that way.

"Now, if you will allow me to continue, I shall be getting to the crux of the matter very shortly."

John licked his lips anxiously and nodded again. He sat back in his chair and patiently listened as Mycroft continued.

He smiled again as he was told about the family Christmas dinner and his mind drifted back to their own family Christmases. It was a short-lived trip down memory lane however, as Mycroft continued to relate the events of that particular year and the intrusion in their bedroom.

"He what?" John couldn't help himself from exclaiming before he clamped his hand over his mouth in horror at his lack of restraint.

"Oh God, Mycroft, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just... " John lost the fragile control he had over his emotions and finally let the tears fall. Mycroft nodded and passed the box of tissues which was on the table next to him.

"Thanks. God, you must think I'm being ridiculous." John half-chuckled at the madness of it all.

"Not at all, John." Mycroft's voice was low and calm, "I imagine it would be difficult _not_ to be moved by the whole thing, in fact."

He took a long, shuddering breath himself and rested back in the chair.

"So..." his eyes dropped to his hands, and he clenched and unclenched his fists, "Sherlock killed our father that night. I could tell straight away that he was dead. Sherlock was in shock, naturally. He hadn't meant to kill the man. He was just protecting me..." Mycroft voice began to tremble as the emotions of that night crashed into him.

"I suppose you could be forgiven for thinking that it was all over at that point. It was self-defence. It was unintentional. The police would see that. Of course, that is all obvious now."

"Of course." John had regained some control of his voice now and was sitting forwards in his chair, hovering, undecided about whether or not Mycroft himself required any sort of comfort.

Mycroft raised his eyes to meet John's and shook his head.

"That was not the end of it all, John." Mycroft continued to relate the story of Jerry and Jim and the ten years that followed.


	28. Chapter 28

"Jim, you really don't have to do this." Sherlock's voice was steady and firm. If he could just convince Jim to let the girl go...

"Oh, Sherlock." Jim responded with a chuckle, "you disappoint me. I thought you might have enjoyed our little 'diversion'. Changing things up a little. You know, variety is the spice of life and all that."

"Just let the girl go, Jim. Please." Sherlock's voice was raised; desperate. He tried to reign it in, but the whole situation was beginning to make him panic. "I'll do whatever you want. You know that. Just... please... let Chrissie go. She's just a kid."

Jim sighed and walked towards Sherlock, placing a hand in his hair and stroking it almost fondly.

"Sherlock." he began, his voice calm, as if talking to a small child, "I know you will do whatever you need to do. And you can help this girl, don't worry. For every thing that you do for me, it is one less bad thing that can happen to dear little Chrissie here."

Chrissie let out a strangled yelp at the same time as Jim pulled hard on Sherlock's hair, yanking his head back and drawing tears from his sensitive eyes. Sherlock presumed that perhaps "Sebby" was doing the same to Chrissie - to make the point.

Jim roughly dropped Sherlock's head and leant down to whisper in his ear.

"It's all up to you, Sherlock. Either you take it or she does." He finished up by inhaling Sherlock's scent deeply. The scent of fear; of anticipation; of... Sherlock.

Sherlock wondered for a moment about the point of all this. Jim knew that Sherlock would do whatever he needed to anyway, so why involve the girl? This was Jim Moriarty though. Jim was in it all for the game, and he would know that the involvement of a third (or, in this case, a fourth) party would affect Sherlock. Unfortunately for Sherlock - and for Chrissie - Jim Moriarty knew the Holmes brothers far too well.

Sherlock heard the Irishman walk away, and he was again aware of the two men's muffled voices as they spoke in the adjoining room.

Chrissie had started sobbing again, her breath jerky as she tried to bring it under control. After a moment of feeling annoyed at her presence and involvement, Sherlock realised that he needed to reassure her somehow.

"Chrissie?" he began, his voice hushed and low, "Chrissie... listen to me. I will not let anything bad happen to you, OK? Do you hear me?"

Chrissie went quiet for a minute before responding. "But... but why would you do that? He will hurt you." Sherlock could hear the concern and fear in her voice. She was torn between her desire to be safe and worry for Sherlock.

"It's OK, Chrissie. He will hurt me anyway." That much was a given, and Sherlock tried to keep the resignation from coming across in his tone. "But he doesn't have to hurt you too. I will protect you from it as best I can, OK?"

The detective was tempted to open his eyes and assess the situation. It was clearly getting out of control. Nothing good was going to happen here, not with a young, innocent teenager here and Jim and whoever Sebby was.

He resisted the urge to look, knowing he would only cause himself greater discomfort, instead withdrawing into himself for a moment.

_Think, Sherlock, think rationally,_ he told himself.

Jim had a hold over Sherlock and Mycroft - How?

Because he knew that Sherlock had killed his father - albeit in self-defence and defence of his brother.

Because he knew that Sherlock and Mycroft had been involved in an incestuous relationship.

Because he had benefited from Mycroft's assistance in making many crimes and situations "vanish" over the past 10 years.

Sherlock paused a moment, processing that information. What proof could Jim have? It'd been ten years since Siger Holmes died. It was a closed case. Even if it was re-opened again, could Jim really have any solid evidence that it was anything other than an accident? Could there really be any proof of Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship? He was fairly certain that Mycroft would not be so stupid as to leave any sort of paper trail regarding the covering up he had done.

Sherlock began to chuckle. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, and suddenly, he saw everything with perfect clarity.

The Holmes brothers had been so broken when Jim first revealed himself to them, that they had been blind to the obvious.

He had nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Sherlock stifled the chuckle, hoping it hadn't drawn too much attention to himself, and began to work through the finer details of what he needed to do next.


	29. Chapter 29

"So, Jim Moriarty spent ten years pretending to be someone else?" John was flabbergasted; completely overwhelmed by the information that Mycroft had shared with him. "But why? Why would he do that? What could he possibly hope to gain?"

Mycroft let out a long breath and leaned forwards to mirror John's position. It was a question he had asked himself a thousand times or more over the past ten years. It was quite astounding how powerful a motivator love could be.

"Revenge." he finally answered simply. "Revenge for his father's death for which he blamed our father. He simply waited for the most opportune moment to make his move, and unfortunately, Sherlock gave him that perfect opportunity when he killed our father."

John puffed out a loud breath. "Fuck." he exclaimed, still unsure whether Mycroft was in need of comfort or just an sympathetic ear, "How fucking screwed up."

"Quite." Mycroft grimaced a forced smile and leaned back in the chair again, giving John the cue to relax a little back into his own.

John frowned a little, and Mycroft could see that he was processing the information he had been given. It was a lot to take in. John had thought he knew a lot about his flatmate, but it turned out that he really knew very little at all.

The doctor cocked his head to the side as he thought.

"So, " he eventually said, his voice sounding as exhausted as both men now looked, "what exactly does Jim have on you then? I mean, actual evidence or leverage?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and forced himself back to that night and every time either of the brothers had encountered the man since then.

"He knows everything." he whispered quietly, not entirely sure how that clarified anything, "he knows... everything."

"OK, so he knows because you told him. He knows that Sherlock killed your father- that it wasn't a tragic accident. But... really... what proof does he have? It was 10 years ago. TEN years, Mycroft. Just think about that for a moment, will you?"

Mycroft pursed his lips and looked straight at John. Maybe the doctor was right. Ten years was a long time, and Jim didn't actually have any concrete evidence of any kind. Nothing that would stand up against what had already been recorded in the reports anyway. But then Mycroft knew there was more to it than that. Jim also knew about his relationship with Sherlock and proof or no proof, the accusations alone could be damaging to the two Holmes Brothers. He couldn't tell John that though, of course. Better he didn't know. Mycroft also knew that he had been careful not to leave any potential evidence of his covering-up over the years. Could Jim actually prove anything? About anything?

"Fuck." the elder Holmes whispered, more to himself that anything else, but just audibly enough for John to hear and raise an eyebrow. Mycroft never swore.

"Quite." John responded in an echo of the previous comeback, and the two men sat in silence for several long minutes.

"I can track my brother's movements." Mycroft finally spoke, his voice shaky but convincing. "He is fitted with a..." Mycroft briefly wondered whether he should be sharing this information but quickly decided it was for the best, "... he is fitted with a tracking device under his skin."

John's eyebrows rose as Mycroft spoke. Sherlock was bugged?

"Sherlock knows, of course." Mycroft clarified, feeling it was necessary, "It is something that we both discussed and decided to do after the first time that Jim..." Mycroft didn't finish as John raised his hand to stop him, nodding his understanding.

"So..." John started, standing and walking over to the living room window, looking down at the few people and cars which were still outside on this chilly evening, "You know exactly where Sherlock is right now then?"

For a moment, Mycroft seemed as though he hadn't heard the doctor, not responding in any way for what felt like hours to John.

"I do." he eventually replied, raising himself up and crossing the room to stand next to his brother's flatmate.

John frowned again, his face reddening slightly as his temper began to flare.

"So why the FUCK, Mycroft, are we still here and not trying to help him?"

"That's a good question, John." Mycroft kept his voice low and calm, the complete opposite of how both he and John felt. "But you have to remember that, until just moments ago, I was under the mistaken impression that this what how things had to be. Both Sherlock and I have had many years to deal with our... 'situation'... and neither of have ever, until now, given any consideration to the idea that, in fact, we may indeed have a stronger hand to play than we thought."

John nodded and clenched his fists again. That damn Jim Moriarty. The man got his claws into everything. Bad enough that he had threatened both John and Sherlock at the pool, and numerous other people through his other nefarious schemes and plots but this... this was a step too fucking far in John's eyes.

"Right then." John announced, clapping his hands together once in a decisive move, "I think it's about time we fetched your brother back then and showed Jim Moriarty once and for all that the Holmes brothers will no longer be dancing to his merry tune... don't you?"


	30. Chapter 30

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock dimly became aware of his name being shouted.

"Sherlock!" Jim shouted his name again, this time emphasising it with sharp slap to the face.

The detective jumped, instinctively raising his arms in defence and pushing Jim away. He had been in his Mind Palace, collating information and details, and he hadn't heard Jim and Sebby's return to the room.

"Fuck!" Sherlock exclaimed, rubbing his hand over his reddening cheek. He composed himself for a moment, resisting the urge to jump up and fight back. He needed to play along for a while longer.

"Welcome back." Jim said sarcastically, leaning down in front of the detective and bringing himself almost to eye level. "You don't want to miss the fun and games now, do you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock remained deliberately silent, taking a minute to assess the exact positions of everybody in the room. Chrissie hadn't been moved from the bed, Jim was just in front of Sherlock himself and Sebby - Sherlock strained his ears to locate the man - Sebby was somewhere on the far side of the room. Sherlock needed to be careful if he wanted to ensure that he didn't place Chrissie in any more danger than she was already in.

The detective sensed Jim moving away from him and decided to see how his eyes were faring. The pain behind them had lessened quite a bit, and he thought perhaps this was the effects of whatever Jim had used wearing off. He squinted one eye open slightly, hoping not to be seen by either man in the room. When the previous blinding brightness didn't hit him like before, he tried opening it a little further.  
The room came into view, not clear but a blurry representation of the area around him. He experimented with the other eye, opening it just a little to begin with and, when he discovered that he could tolerate the light, opening it fully and allowing both eyes to get used to the light.

Slowly and subtly, he took in his surroundings. The hotel room layout he remembered from previously. Chrissie was still laid on the bed, bound herself but not tied to the actual bed. This was good. Sebby and Jim were on the far side of the room, stood near the bathroom door. Fortunately, neither man was facing either of their captives, and this gave Sherlock the perfect opportunity that he was looking for.

John pulled the car door closed behind him, sliding into the back seat of the sedan alongside Mycroft. He nodded his acknowledgement to the "heavy" who had escorted them into the government vehicle and let out a long breath as the car set off in the direction of the hotel.

"I really did think that he had gone to see you again." John's voice was subdued; guilt-ridden, as if he should have known there was something not right about it all. "He's been seeing so much of you lately, I just didn't give it a second thought."

Mycroft nodded silently. Sherlock had been spending a lot of time in Mycroft's presence, but that was only because of the reappearance and, more seriously, the capture of Jim Moriarty. Sherlock usually made a conscious effort to stay away from his brother, determined as he was not to be drawn in by their obvious incestuous attraction to each other. Mycroft was a busy man anyway, and he rarely noticed Sherlock's deliberate avoidance. It was the times when Sherlock was there, in his office or at the Diogenes club, that Mycroft realised that Sherlock still felt the same way that he did, unable to resist the small touches and caresses that had played such a big part in their covert relationship for so long.

Mycroft shook himself from his reverie and turned to John.

"It's not your fault, John." he said calmly, in an attempt to reassure the doctor, "Sherlock knew what he was getting into."

Conversation was interrupted by the shrill ring of Mycroft's phone.

"Mycroft Holmes!" he barked into it, not quite as professionally as he had intended and rather giving away his current state of anxiety. A brief silence at the other end of the line gave Mycroft opportunity to calm himself somewhat before he acknowledged the caller a second time.

"Good evening and my apologies, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Were you able to do as we discussed?"

Greg cleared his throat and swallowed before answering.

"Mycroft, yes, of course. I have a tactical team heading that way now."

Mycroft nodded and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Greg," he responded, the informality getting a raised eyebrow from John, "I shall see you shortly then." Mycroft ended the call and allowed a little of the built-up tension to slip from his body.

"Greg?" John asked curiously, "First name terms?" It was unusual for Mycroft to call anybody by the first name, having only just begun using John's very recently, so John was surprised as such a lack of formality between Mycroft and the Detective Inspector.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, before he was a detective inspector, of course, was one of the officers who dealt with our father's death, John. We have been acquainted for many years now." Mycroft's face broke into an uncharacteristic genuine smile, just for a moment, before settling back into its more familiar mask of detachment.

"Right. I see." John tried to keep the surprise from showing in his voice, realising he had pretty much failed to do so when he spotted the slight smirk of Mycroft's lips, "So we have back up at the hotel then? A tactical unit? Or somebody armed, I hope?" John really didn't fancy being the only gun against Jim Moriarty - a man who likely had more than one gun and more than one pair of 'helping hands'.

"Most definitely." Mycroft's reply was calmly reassuring. "You can rest assured, John, that whatever Jim Moriarty has in place, he will most definitely be out-manned and out-gunned."


	31. Chapter 31

Sherlock slammed his eyes closed again as Jim Moriarty turned around and decisively headed back towards where the detective was sitting. Sherlock briefly zoned out to try to place where Sebby had headed, quickly noting that he too seemed to be walking in the same direction as Jim.

Sherlock steeled himself, taking a deep breath whilst still feigning discomfort from the brightness of the room, by squinting with a faint moan. Jim resulting chuckle reassured him that his performance was sufficiently convincing.

He settled himself, steadying his heart rate - something he had taught himself to do as a drug user, in order to disguise his repeated use and highs - and focusing his thoughts on the job in hand. The element of surprise would mean that he could easily take down one of the men, but disabling two would require rather more effort. As he became aware of Sebby's proximity, he decided to take him down first, he being the stronger man of the two and the most likely to be immediately armed.

He chewed on his bottom lip and counted to ten...

"Greg is meeting us there?" John questioned Mycroft, asking a variant of what was essentially the same question, for the fourth time. Mycroft just grinned tolerantly and turned to John, noting that they were approaching their destination as the car began to slow.

"The tactical unit, along with Detective Inspector Lestrade, will be on site before we are... although," he hesitated briefly as the car rounded a corner and slowed to a stop, "we are here. And I can see the unit are parked around the corner." Mycroft motioned to the two armoured vehicles parked in the side street and he reached for the door handle at the same time as the 'heavy' moved to open it for the men. John shuffled himself out of the car, reaching, almost without conscious thought, for his weapon behind him.

"I assure you that we shall be quite safe, John."

Trust Mycroft to notice even the most subtle of moves. John rolled his eyes and laughed.

"Sure... sure. Just checking." John huffed out a breath. He wasn't used to someone criticising his attention to his weapon. Sherlock was quite used to it. John's face fell at the reminder of Sherlock and the reason why they were there, as if he could have forgotten.

"What's the plan then?" he asked Mycroft, his voice hushed as if walls and pavements had ears before his face relaxed a little as he saw Greg approach from around the corner.

"You'd better check with the boss." Mycroft nodded in the direction of the Detective Inspector, and Greg laughed as he heard the elder Holmes' comment. It wasn't often he felt like the boss when Mycroft Holmes was concerned, and even less often that he was referred to as one.

"Jim Moriarty, Sherlock and two unknowns are in room 621." he began, scanning the area to ensure that the tactical team were all in place

"Wait," John interrupted, grabbing hold of Greg's forearm in a mild state of panic, "Jim has two others with him?"

"Well," Greg nodded, placing his free hand over that of the concerned doctor, "yes, but one, we believe, is an additional victim. There appears to be only one additional perpetrator."

Mycroft groaned and both Greg and John turned to him.

"Jim would know that adding a second victim would motivate Sherlock further. Because of that, my brother may feel compelled to do something stupid." he said blankly. "It was unnecessary, of course. Sherlock would have given him..."

"Mycroft..." Greg pulled from John's touch and laid his own arm on Mycroft's. "Mycroft. He'll be fine. I promise you, he will be fine."

John resisted the urge to raise his eyebrow at the scenario before him, almost feeling like an intruder in a 'moment' that appeared private.

Mycroft nodded and raised his eyes to Greg's.

"I'm sure you are correct, Greg." he replied, chewing nervously, once more, on his bottom lip. "I presume that Tactical are awaiting your instruction?"

Greg cleared his throat before responding and stepping back a little, the physical proximity of Mycroft Holmes being, momentarily, someone overwhelming.

"They are." he finally said, nodding in the direction of a dark-clad man who was holding an impressively large weapon. John suddenly felt rather inadequate with his army-issue Sig.

"OK then." Mycroft briefly placed his hand on top of Greg's before the moment was over and the two men broke apart, "Let's get this over with."


	32. Chapter 32

The dark-clad guy approached Greg and the two men, his hand to his ear as if he was listening to an earpiece. He nodded an acknowledgement to John and Mycroft before turning to Greg.

"Our ears indicate that there is little sound in the room at the moment. This is a good thing. We've ascertained, as best we can, the positions of the subjects within the room. There are 2 mobile subjects, which we take to the be perpetrators, and 2 immobile ones, likely the victims. Do we have any intel on the second victim yet?"

Greg nodded, briefly sideways glancing and John and Mycroft who were listening intently.

"From CCTV and a missing persons report that came in this evening, we believe the second victim to be Chrissie Stone. Fourteen years old. Her father reported her missing when she didn't come home from school today. He was... " he chose his words carefully, "... he was 'reassured' by uniform, when he reported it, that it was too early to report a girl of this age missing, but it appears, from the photo he provided and the description from the hotel receptionist, that she may be the person inside. The girl on the hotel desk said that she arrived looking edgy and nervous with a single white male who we believe to be Jim Moriarty. She just dismissed the couple as a teenager getting up to no good with an older man." The detective inspector sighed. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Nobody in the hotel actually saw Sherlock... " Greg's eyes darted towards Mycroft as he mentioned his brother's name. Mycroft's eyes were fixed on the handle of his umbrella, but Greg could tell that the man was absorbing all the information, "... or the second perpetrator, still an unknown subject, enter." He shrugged, exhausted by the events of the day which fell just a little too close to home with the involvement of Sherlock.

"Your men are in place, Mark?" Greg asked, noticing that movement around him had stopped and that an eerie hush had fallen over the area. He looked down the street towards the police cordon and back again at John who had begun to shuffle his feet anxiously.

"They are." Mark nodded, squaring his shoulders and readying himself.

"Right," Greg's voice was firm and authoritative, "Let's do this before suspicions are aroused. Give the command."

The whole operation was massive. Greg had been astounded at the level of Mycroft Holmes' influence when it came to mobilising the tactical unit. It seemed like overkill to the detective inspector, but he appreciated that there was a definite danger to both Sherlock and Chrissie, and Mycroft was determined that this situation would end and end fast.

Four of the tac team made their way up the stairwell, noiselessly pushing open the door to the 6th floor and silently creeping along the hall towards room 621. Silent commands and mutual understanding readied them at the doorway, weapons armed.

Additional men stood at all exits: fire escapes, elevators and main doors. Men were also placed in the adjoining rooms, 619 and 623, mostly for listening purposes but also as back up.

The four upstairs watched intently, focused on their one goal: to get the two victims out safely and bring in the perpetrators. They would be easy to differentiate between. The victims were, they had been informed, immobile and possibly restrained. The 'perps' would be the other two. They had instructions to ensure that the two captives were rescued 'at any cost'.

Nobody had any doubts about what that meant.

One of them began a five-finger countdown...

_One_ - Sherlock took a long, steadying breath. One that could be attributed to general anxiety and wouldn't give Jim or Sebby cause for suspicion.

_Two_ - He clenched and unclenched his fists, doing a mental check of his body, ensuring circulation in his extremities.

_Three_ - All extremities present and correct. Sherlock was as certain that he could be that his legs would cooperate.

_Four_ - He noted Chrissie had fallen silent on the bed.

_Five_ - Jim and Sebby appeared to have stopped short of his own position.

_Six_ - Sherlock became aware of faint whispers and the hint of silent communication between the two men.

_Seven_ - Jim stepped away, leaving Sherlock under Sebby's watchful eye - P_erfect_, Sherlock thought.

_Eight_ - He dropped his head and cracked his eyes open just a little, checking he would still be able to rely on them.

_Nine_ - He extended his hearing one more time, reassuring himself of the positions of both Jim and Sebby.

_Ten..._

Sherlock jumped up from his chair, almost shocking Sebby into losing his balance before the bigger man made a grab for his lowered weapon. Sherlock swiftly pulled the disorientated man into a headlock, forcing the pistol from Sebby's grip and into his own hand.

Jim spun round, his face dark as thunder as he made a reach for Chrissie.

"Don't!" Sherlock barked sharply, pressing the cold barrel of the gun against Sebby's temple and walking him towards Jim.

With a sudden flash of noise and light, four men burst into the room, weapons raised and shouting.

Each of them did a sweep to assess the room, ultimately training their weapons on the two men that they subsequently identified as perpetrators: one hovering close to the bound girl on the bed and the other with the gun to the third man's head...


	33. Chapter 33

There was light and smoke and confusion.

Several guns were raised and somebody shouted.

Greg strained his ears to listen from the stairwell. He didn't have clearance to enter the hotel room until the area had been secured, but he had made sure he would be close by ready for when that occurred.  
Mycroft and John had remained downstairs, much to John's chagrin. They had been requested to do so by the Tac Team for reasons of safety. Mycroft was understanding, being used to staying out of the thick of things, but John was unimpressed and stood fidgeting outside.

A girl's scream travelled out of the hotel room door and along the corridor.

"Not him!" she shouted, struggling desperately to drag her still-tied body off the bed and out of the room. As she appeared in the doorway, assisted by one of the tac team, she yelled to anybody who would listen.

"Not him. It's not him." She was crying frantically, and Greg approached her as the tactical team member handed her over and started to turn back to re-enter the room.

"Wait!" she cried again. "Please wait."

She reached out, grabbing hold of the man's arm with her newly freed hand.

"Please. The man with the gun. That's not the guy. That's Sherlock. He..."

She got no further as the message sank in and both the tac team guy and Greg made a move for the hotel room.

"No!" commanded the armed man, indicating that Greg should stay with Cassie. "I'll sort it."

Greg nodded and pulled Cassie's hand from the man while releasing the last of her bounds and catching her as she fell, exhausted, into his arms.

"Shhhhh." he said, dropping to the floor with her and leaning back against the hallway's flock wallpaper, "It's over now. It's all over."

Her sobs and heavy breathing began to subside, and Greg couldn't help letting his eyes wander over to the hotel room doorway. God, he hoped Sherlock was OK. He wasn't sure what had happened but it was evident that all wasn't what it seemed in that room.

"I'm OK." Cassie whispered hoarsely, her voice tired from screaming and crying, "Please... make sure he's OK too?"

Greg frowned, reluctant to leave the girl, but she was clearly as concerned about what might happen inside the room as he was.

"You sure?" he questioned, wishing somebody; anybody; even Donovan, had come upstairs with him to look after her.

Cassie nodded and lifted her arms to push him away.

"Please."

The room erupted into chaos as the four men burst in and finally came to a halt with their weapons lined up with both Jim and Sherlock's heads. Sherlock was suddenly acutely aware of how it looked. He was standing there with a pistol to Sebby's head and, to anybody looking on, he looked every bit the perpetrator rather than the victim.  
He held out his hands in front of him and slowly lowered the gun before raising his hands again, hoping for a placating stance which would relax fingers on triggers and giving him a chance to explain.

He saw Cassie being escorted from the room by one of the men, his partner's weapon honed in on Jim Moriarty's head. The vicious smile that Jim shot at Sherlock made the detective's stomach lurch. This was bad. This was very bad. Even if Jim went willingly, there would be serious repercussions. Sherlock realised now that there was absolutely nothing he or Mycroft could do about that now. Words would be said. Stories would be told. The Holmes brothers could only hope to come out of the other side unscathed or, at least, in one piece.

Sherlock turned to the two men who were closing in on his and Sebby's position, one man's rifle still aimed squarely at the younger Holmes' head. Sebby was crouched on the floor, playing the victim, and the difference in stance between the man who was headed for Sebby and the man with his gun pointed towards Sherlock was clear to see.

"Wait!"

The tac team member who had escorted Cassie out re-entered, drawing the attention of the remaining three men. He made a subtle gesture which Sherlock hoped was good and the three men nodded. Jim took this opportunity, however, to take advantage of the team's divided attention.

He reached behind him and raised a pistol of his own, levelling it, to begin with, in the general direction of Sherlock and Sebby. He was clearly undecided how to proceed, expecting that this could be the end and he would either fight his way out or go down in a blaze of something vaguely resembling glory.

He had little time to hesitate though, and he crossed the room swiftly and pressed the pistol to Sherlock's temple.

"If I'm going down," he whispered to the detective, his voice hard and determined, "you are sure as hell going with me."

The room erupted again as two men dragged Sebby from the room, and the re-entered team member raised his weapon to Jim.

Two clear shots were heard, and as Greg stepped into the room, both men dropped to the ground, and the room fell into a deathly silence...


	34. Epilogue - Chapter 34

**TWO MONTHS LATER**

Mycroft's fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary on Sherlock's as his brother handed him a glass of the expensive Scotch that Mycroft had brought with him. Mycroft took it gratefully and quickly downed half of the two-finger measure.

The elder man deposited the glass down on the desk and studied his brother. He placed a hand on Sherlock's good arm and squeezed gently. It had been several weeks since he had seen him, not having visited Baker Street since Sherlock's release from hospital 12 days ago.

Sherlock had been lucky that Jim's shot had discharged as the consulting criminal fell to the ground, meaning that the bullet had ended up off-target and, while it had laid him up in hospital for some weeks, it had avoided doing any major damage. A bullet wound to the shoulder (there was a certain irony in that, Sherlock thought), a broken arm and weak eyes for a few days were the only real damage done. It was enough, of course. More than either Mycroft, John or Greg had been content with, but it was better than what could have been.

It had been difficult, but Mycroft had made a conscious effort to allow Sherlock some recuperation time at home, uninterrupted by talk of Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran and their past. He had missed his brother though, and as days went on, he found himself filled with concern for the younger man and wanting to ensure that his emotional needs were being seen to as well as his medical ones.

Sherlock looked up into his brother's eyes, seeing the concern that filled them as he moved himself away and sat down on the sofa.

"He isn't talking then?" the younger man asked, diffusing the moment.

Mycroft let out a subdued sigh and, retrieving his glass, sat down himself in Sherlock's armchair.

"He has said nothing at all since he was informed of Jim's... 'passing'."

Sherlock nodded. He had figured that would be the case. Nobody had really expected Sebastian Moran to cooperate with any investigation into what had happened in the hotel room, and so it had been left to Sherlock and Cassie to give statements and help piece together the events of that day.

John entered the flat, hanging his coat on the rack before turning and realising that both Holmes brothers were present.

"Oh...sorry." he exclaimed, acutely aware of the tension and suddenly feeling as though he had interrupted a private family moment. "I didn't realise."

Mycroft raised a hand to silence the doctor and shook his head amenably.

"It's quite all right, John." he said, standing and crossing to the doctor, taking his hand in a firm handshake. "I hear that I have you to thank for my brother's speedy recovery?"

John chuckled, returning the handshake and crossing the room to pour himself a rare glass of the expensive Scotch.

"Really, I didn't do anything." he replied, pouring two fingers and placing the glass down on the table next to his armchair opposite Mycroft. "I just ensured that he looked after himself while he recovered, that's all."

John approached Sherlock, now laid on the sofa, and knelt alongside him. He looked the detective in the eyes, brushing his hand carefully along his arm which had recently had its cast removed and checking the dressing on his shoulder.

Mycroft watched his brother as he was examined tenderly by the doctor. He watched the change in Sherlock's breathing and noted an aura of calm come over him as John carefully checked him over.

The elder Holmes smiled, unseen by the two men who were, for that moment, in their own world. A world where John cared for Sherlock and Sherlock... well Sherlock clearly both wanted and needed it.

Mycroft's heart softened as he realised that his brother no longer needed him.

While there would always be a strong connection between the two Holmes brothers, they could now live their lives without the fear and dread that Jim Moriarty had cast over them for ten long years.

With Jim gone, their lives were now free to be their own.

Mycroft finished his drink and stood to leave, picking up his umbrella from the doorway and swinging it gently as he closed the door firmly behind him.

Walking slowly down the stairs, he pulled out his phone and dialled Greg's familiar number.

They would be OK now. They would all be OK.


End file.
